


take my whole life, too

by cas_tielle



Series: adventures in christmas travels [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/F, M/M, One Shot, Strangers on a plane, Strangers to Lovers, Winter, basically a holiday romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cas_tielle/pseuds/cas_tielle
Summary: Having her flight cancelled mid-air might just be the best thing that's ever happened to Morgana.or, morgana and gwen are strangers who get stranded in iceland for christmas
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: adventures in christmas travels [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072034
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	take my whole life, too

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a quick one shot but 28k later here we are
> 
> special thanks to [jiang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiang) for a very excellent last minute beta <3

Between sleeping through all her alarms, ripping one of the zippers on her suitcase, and being sorely deprived of caffeine, Morgana is having a bad morning. She swears as she stumbles out of her flat, trying to lock the door and fumbling with the keys in her haste. She blows strands of hair out of her eyes and tries to collect herself as she drags her luggage towards the taxi waiting outside, hazard lights flashing dimly. The driver looks impatient as he steps out of the car to hoist her suitcase into the boot, but she can’t bring herself to give him more than a half-hearted apology for being late. She’s still wearing the sweatpants she wore to bed last night, but making her flight takes priority over her appearance right now. 

“Trying to catch an 8 am flight,” Morgana says, checking her phone. The screen lights up her face and reads  6:52 . “Step on it, please.”

The winter sky is still dark, and solitary clouds drift aimlessly in the navy blue as the taxi careens around the street corners of Dublin. Morgana lets her heart rate slow a little now that she’s sitting down, and she checks her reflection in her phone’s camera anxiously. She makes it to the airport and tips the driver generously, almost throwing the cash at him and only sparing a few seconds to feel bad about it. Racing through the airport, Morgana gets to her gate in time, out of breath and sweating, but it turns out she needn’t have rushed anyway.

_ Delayed? _ Morgana thinks, dismayed. She looks up at the little screen above the gate, reading  Flight EI348: Departing for SFO at 10am , and lets out a heavy breath. She sighs and drags her carry-on over to the waiting area by the gate, and settles in. 

Morgana pulls out her phone and scrolls through her contacts, pressing the call button next to her brother’s name. She waits impatiently as it rings and sits up straighter when the line clicks. 

“I’ll be late,” she says by way of greeting.

“Well, hello, to you, too,” Arthur yawns, his voice sounding tinny over the phone. “What’s happened?”

“Flight’s been delayed,” Morgana says, eyes flicking back to the screen above the gate. “Probably at least two hours.”

“Ah, shit,” says Arthur, and Morgana can see him rubbing his forehead inside her mind. 

“Don’t worry about picking me up, I’ll just get a cab from the airport,” she tells him. “I probably won’t make it to dinner, though.” 

She tries to sound more dejected, but Arthur knows her too well. 

“Did you do this on purpose?” he demands, sounding like he’s only half-kidding. “Did you do something to the plane so you wouldn’t have to go to dinner with Dad?”

“It’s a work dinner,” Morgana protests. “I don’t even know why he invited me. I think this is a sign that I should stay here over hols.”

“What, and spend Christmas and the New Year alone?”

“There’s something tragically poetic about it,” Morgana says wistfully. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Morgs,” Arthur scoffs, and then after a beat, “I asked him to invite you.”

“What?” Morgana realises how loud her voice is when several other disgruntled travelers shoot her dirty looks, and she lowers her voice, abashed. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s the holidays, Morgana.” Arthur sounds exasperated, like he’s talking to a small child. “People should be with their families during the holidays.”

“Uther and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

“You know I think it’s weird when you call him that.”

“Well, he’s not exactly ‘Dad’ to me right now, is he?” Morgana says defensively. 

“Then you should come home for me,” Arthur says. “I haven’t seen you since before summer.”

It will be nice to see Arthur, Morgana admits to herself. The last time they’d met up was after her semester ended; she’d met up with him in London where she'd met his boyfriend, Merlin.

“How is Merlin, by the way?” Morgana asks. “Did he end up getting that dog?”

Arthur snorts. “No, I wouldn’t let him,” he says, “I mean, the man can barely take care of himself. Can you imagine him being responsible for an entire other living being?”

There’s a  _ thwack _ noise and Arthur yelps. “Oi!”

“Stop disparaging me to your sister,” Morgana can hear Merlin hissing distantly on the other end of the line. 

“Why do you care what she thinks?” Arthur argues petulantly, sounding fainter. Merlin must be holding the phone away from him. 

“She happens to be the only Pendragon whose opinion actually matters,” Merlin fires back. “Hi Morgana!”

Morgana laughs in spite of herself. “Hello, love,” she says fondly. “Are you still doing my little brother’s daft head in?”

“Always,” Merlin says cheekily, and then there’s a scuffling noise that sounds like Merlin has made a wild grab for the phone and Arthur is trying to keep him at arm’s length. Morgana waits for them to finish tussling. 

“There’s a good lad,” she says. 

“I don’t like it when you two get along,” Arthur grumbles, voice clearer now. She can hear the creak of mattress springs as he rolls out of bed, walking away from Merlin. “I’m finishing this call outside!” he yells, and she can hear Merlin shout something unintelligible in the background. 

“We do make a formidable team,” Morgana agrees happily. 

“Speaking of teams,” Arthur begins, sounding cautious, and Morgana’s attention catches. “There’s kind of another reason I was hoping you’d come home for Christmas this year.”

Morgana waits, hearing the click of the door behind Arthur as he closes the door to the hallway. She can hear the pad of his feet on the floors and imagines him pacing up and down the stairs, eventually settling on the bottom step. The silence stretches out and Morgana starts to get antsy. She wants to ask if something is wrong but intuition tells her to hold back, giving Arthur all the time he needs to formulate his thoughts.

“I want to ask Merlin to marry me, and I’d really like you to be there,” Arthur says all in a rush. “For moral support.”

“Wow,” Morgana says, shocked and a little breathless. She can feel her eyebrows creeping into her hairline. “That’s just– wow,” she says again. “That’s a big move, Arthur. Things are going well, then? You’re that serious about him?”

“He’s everything, Morgana,” Arthur says softly, voice so full of warmth she can hear him smiling over the phone. 

Morgana doesn’t respond immediately, mouth agape. She tries to formulate her thoughts into words but nothing seems to be coming out. 

“Morgana?” Arthur says nervously in the silence. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” she bursts out at last. “Yes, I’m still here. Oh, Arthur, that’s brilliant! I’m so happy for you!”

“He hasn’t said yes yet,” Arthur laughs sheepishly, and Morgana can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed. 

“He will,” says Morgana with feeling. “Of course I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Thanks, Morgs,” Arthur says, relief sounding like one big exhale. “God, do you know how much I love you? I don’t think I tell you that enough.”

“Can’t pass up the opportunity to not be the family disappointment for once,” Morgana quips, uncomfortable with Arthur’s show of emotion. 

She can practically hear his eyes roll. 

“Shut up,” Arthur says, but it’s mostly fond. “Okay, it’s just past midnight here and I gotta get back to bed or Merlin’s going to have to deal with my cranky arse tomorrow. Text me when you get here, yeah?”

“Will do,” Morgana says, playing with the drawstring of her sweatpants. “See you soon.”

~

Somehow she still has an hour and a half to kill, so she pulls out a book, plugs in her headphones, and immerses herself. Over the next hour, more people start trickling in and the waiting area gradually begins to fill up. She pulls her things closer to her as people sit next to her, offering a tight-lipped smile reserved for strangers, and goes back to her novel. 

Morgana’s phone buzzes in her pocket, notifying her that she’s just received a text. She digs it out of her pocket and pauses her music, smiling as she clicks open the picture Sophia has sent her. It’s a selfie of her best friend on the train giving a thumbs up, and she’s just typing out a response when she feels someone trip over her outstretched legs. 

Morgana already has ‘don’t worry about it’ on the tip of her tongue, when she looks up and the response dies as she finds herself face-to-face with one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen. 

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” says the woman, anxiously tucking her curly hair behind her ears. Her brown eyes are wide with apology and her voice is soft, and Morgana is so distracted by the girl’s smooth brown skin that she freezes entirely. 

“Er, hi?” the woman says uncertainly. “Sorry, I just need to…” She trails off, gesturing towards the bathroom and waving an empty water bottle. Morgana snaps out of it.

“Oh, right,” Morgana says, flustered, hurriedly drawing her legs in and pulling her bags out of the aisle. “Sorry, that’s– that’s my fault. I can watch your bags for you while you go, if you want?” she says, trying not to sound too overeager, and she’s rewarded with a smile.

“Thanks, he’s watching them for me, though,” replies the woman, gesturing at the man who had been sitting next to her. Morgana just watches her walk away, and mentally kicks herself.

“‘I can watch your bags’?” she mutters to herself, shaking her head. “Jesus. Get a grip.” 

She turns her music back on and goes back to reading her book, only looking up briefly when the woman comes back with her bottle filled. Morgana registers her presence out of the corner of her eye, seeing her thank the man next to her for watching her bags as she sits back down one seat over. He seems to ask her a question, and the girl smiles back at him and nods politely. Morgana discreetly turns the volume of her music down, her eyes still trained on the printed page in front of her.

“I was doing a study abroad program for the semester,” the man is saying, leaning over his armrest towards her. His American accent stands out among the general noise, as well as his volume. “It was great, I can only imagine what it’s like studying in the UK for the full term. Are you studying at University of Cork? That’s where I was.”

“Oh, no,” the woman replies, “I actually study in Edinburgh, I just stop over in Dublin to go home.”

“Yeah, I could’ve gone there for my study abroad program but I chose Cork instead,” he says dismissively. “I have family here and I wanted to get closer with my roots, you know? I have an Irish passport, so it was easier anyway.”

“Of course,” she says awkwardly, trying to look interested but not doing a very good job of it. Morgana hides a smile at her page, and turns off her music completely.

“You don’t sound American,” the man continues. “Where are you from?”

“My mum is American and my dad is English,” she responds. “I kind of grew up in both places, but I guess the English accent is the one that stuck.”

“That sounds like a lot of moving back and forth.”

“They’re divorced, so I suppose it was a bit of a hassle but that’s just how things were, you know?” She doesn’t sound particularly keen on elaborating any further, and tries to change the subject. “I’m spending this year with my mum’s side of the family. We’re meant to be having a nice meal when I get back, so hopefully the flight doesn’t get delayed any more than it already has been. I was sort of counting on being back by five in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, I get that. Though, honestly, I was just glad I found out the flight was delayed so I could sleep in for two hours more. I’d hate to have gotten here and end up waiting two hours for the gate to open.” The guy laughs loftily and Morgana rolls her eyes behind the curtain of her hair, irked. 

“Speaking of five in the afternoon,” he continues, slapping the armrests and standing up. “Some time somewhere, right? Pretty sure that’s how the saying goes. I think I’m going to grab a pre-flight Guinness.” 

He chuckles and winks at her, as though he’s letting her in on a shared joke or secret, and walks toward the bar at the concessions stand next to the waiting area. The woman gives him a closed-lipped smile as he passes her, looking a bit relieved once he’s out of earshot, and goes back to her phone, tapping something out furiously. Morgana’s eyes linger on her face for a second or two longer, half hoping that the girl will look up so that she can catch her eye. She would smile at her, somewhere between charming and seductive, as well as being understanding and empathetic of her plight. Instinctively, her mouth tries to form the shape but it feels unnatural and forced, and Morgana is suddenly grateful that the girl doesn’t decide to look up at that moment because she’d look absolutely mad, pulling faces at this random stranger for no reason.

The man returns a handful of minutes later, a dark drink sloshing around in a pint glass, and grins at the girl as he passes her again to reach his chair. He takes a long drink from the glass, foam clinging to his upper lip like a mustache, and he smacks his lips together theatrically.

“The perfect morning bev,” he jokes, and the girl gives him a tight-lipped smile this time, evidently beginning to lose patience. “I’m Connor, by the way.”

“Gwen,” says the woman, and shakes his hand. Morgana turns her name over in her mind, and files this information away. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Connor says, taking another swallow of his dark ale, before setting it on the miniature table next to him. “So like, where are you actually from?”

“Oh, um,” Gwen says after an awkward beat of silence, sounding taken aback. “I’m a dual citizen, so I have a US and UK passport which comes in handy.”

“Yeah, I feel you. I have an Irish passport too,” Connor says, obtusely. “But I meant like, ethnically.”

Morgana just manages to stifle a horrified snort at his bluntness, covering it with a coughing fit. Feeling the weight of a pair of eyes on her, she looks up to catch Gwen’s gaze and gives her a small sympathetic look. To her delight, she watches Gwen bite her lip through a smile before she turns back to Connor, where her expression turns uneasy again.

“Excuse me?” she asks the boy, who forges ahead, seemingly unaware of the way Gwen and a few other travelers around them are looking at him.

“Like, where are your parents from?” he says, explaining himself as though he thought she hadn’t understood the question.

Morgana keeps her eyes trained on the pages of her book, staring intently down at it as though she could burn holes through the paper with the pure force of will and determined not to give in to the temptation to look up. She caves anyway and sees Gwen’s cheeks stained pink as she stammers out a flustered response.

“M-My dad’s Afro-Guyanese and my mum’s white, so I’m biracial,” she says, sounding confused to hear her own voice replying. 

“Whoa, that’s so exotic,” Connor says, and Morgana cringes. “I’ve never met anyone who’s Guyanese. I don’t even know where that is. Is that a country or a territory?”

“Country,” Gwen says uncomfortably. “It’s next to Venezuela.”

“Do you speak the language?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame. I think it’s really important to connect with one’s own roots, that’s why I’ve been so lucky to spend time in Ireland this semester,” Connor explains, a bit needlessly. “I’ve always wanted to learn Irish.”

“Being bilingual is useful,” agrees Gwen, and Morgana has to give her credit for keeping a straight face through this whole conversation.

Just then, the intercom crackles to life and a woman’s voice booms overhead. Gwen looks relieved to have a reason to turn away from Connor, and she twists around to look at the lady behind the boarding gate desk.

“Flight EI348 for San Francisco is now boarding at Gate 402. Will passengers in boarding group 1 please queue up?” says the boarding agent over the intercom, and a handful of people around Morgana begin to stand up and gather their things, including Connor.

“That’s me,” he says to Gwen, slinging his bag over his shoulder and sticking his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for the conversation, it’s been nice talking to you.”

“You, too,” Gwen says and gives a little wave. “Happy holidays.”

When Connor finally disappears in the throng of people crowding around the gate, Gwen seems to let out a visible breath of air, and Morgana can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes her. It catches Gwen’s attention and she smiles at Morgana, who is suddenly breathless for a different reason. 

When they call for groups 3 through 5 to board, Morgana stands and makes her way to the queue, stuffing her book into her bag. She joins the crowd of people milling around the gate, unsure of where the lines for each boarding group begin and end. She turns around to ask the person behind her which queue she’s in and finds herself nose-to-nose with Gwen, almost directly colliding with her in her haste.

“Do you know – oh!” Morgana catches herself against the other woman as she stumbles, hands grasping Gwen’s arms to steady herself. She pulls away quickly, not wanting to grope her and feeling obscurely embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I’m so clumsy sometimes.”

“No worries,” Gwen tells her easily.

“I was just wondering if I was in the right queue,” Morgana explains. “I’m in boarding group 5, but I can’t really tell which queue is which.”

“I can’t tell either,” says Gwen. “But if it’s any consolation, I’m in group 5, too. We can stick together.”

“I’d like that,” Morgana says, feeling giddy and trying not to show it.

“I’m Gwen.” She sticks out a hand.

“I know,” Morgana says with amusement, and shakes her hand. 

“Oh. Oh! Right.” She looks embarrassed. “You heard all of that?”

“Just the highlights,” Morgana laughs. “Sorry for eavesdropping. I’m Morgana.”

“I hardly think it counts as eavesdropping if our conversation was loud enough for the whole airport to hear.” Gwen makes a face. “It’s nice to meet you. Are you doing a study abroad too?”

“No, I’m a postgrad student at Trinity,” Morgana says. The queue inches forward.

“Oh, cool! What do you study?” Gwen’s bright eyes and sweet demeanor don’t come off as nosy when Morgana finds herself on the receiving end of her questioning, and she’s pleased to be the focus of Gwen’s curiosity.

“Communication and speech therapy,” she says. “You said you’re studying in Scotland, right?”

They reach the front of the line at last and separate briefly for the agents to check their boarding passes and passports, and the two girls pass into the pathway to the plane.

“Queen Margaret University,” Gwen tells her, hiking her bag higher up on her arm when it starts to slip. “What’s your seat number?”

Morgana checks her ticket. “37L.”

“No way! I’m 37K,” Gwen says, delighted. “We’re seat mates!”

The girls board the plane and make their way to the back, finding two isolated seats instead of the standard three in the very last row. Morgana hoists her carry-on into the overhead compartment and tries not to see this as a sign. 

Gwen slides into the seat by the window and slides her bag under the seat in front of her, and Morgana pauses. 

“Oh, sorry,” says Gwen, apparently noticing her hesitation. “The window seat is yours, isn’t it? I can move.”

“I don’t mind,” Morgana says, relenting. She really doesn’t have a preference, and it’s worth it to see Gwen beam at her again. If Arthur were here, he’d tease her for being a pushover for any pretty girl who smiled at her, and he’d be right.

“Thanks,” Gwen is saying gratefully. “I get airsick sometimes, so the window seat helps.”

“Of course,” Morgana tells her. “My brother’s like that, too, so I get it. I think he usually likes to drink through the nausea though.”

Gwen laughs, tucking a brown curl behind her ear and shaking her head. “Not sure I’m quite there,” she says. “I don’t know how I feel about drinking on flights.”

“Don’t take after Connor’s example, then?” Morgana asks wryly, unable to resist. “You sure you don’t want a Guinness to calm your nerves?”

“Shut up,” the other girl gasps, batting Morgana’s arm with a scandalised expression, but it’s not a very hard hit and she’s smiling, so Morgana thinks she’s in the clear. Her arm tingles where Gwen had smacked her, not from pain but just the contact of her hand. “Sorry. I mean, you’re awful.”

“I wouldn’t judge,” Morgana says indulgently, raising her eyebrows. “You can have  _ as many _ Guinnesses as you want.”

The girl leans towards her in her laughter, and Morgana catches a whiff of her shampoo, sweet and smelling faintly of peaches. She looks up at Morgana, lashes clumped together like a pixie’s and her eyes dancing with mirth. 

“You’re too kind to me,” Gwen says, and Morgana almost misses it, distracted by the press of Gwen’s arm against hers on the armrest. “I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to pull a Connor later.”

“I thought you guys were traveling together at first,” Morgana admits. “I only realised you weren’t after he started asking you so many questions.”

“He just kept talking!” Gwen says emphatically. 

“Men tend to do that.”

“All I did was ask him to watch my bags for a moment, and then I came back and he trapped me in a conversation. Well, no, okay,” she backtracks, looking abashed. “Maybe trapped is a strong word. He seemed nice enough.”

“Aside from the casual racism?” Morgana says dryly.

“Aside from that, yes,” Gwen says, rolling her eyes. “I actually wanted to ask you to watch my bags,” she confesses. “But I didn’t know if it was too awkward to ask, since you were sitting sort of diagonally across from me, you know? And he was just right there…”

The thought that Gwen had noticed her before they’d spoken sends a thrill through Morgana, and she tries not to feel too pleased about it. It’s one thing to pay attention to the random beautiful women around her and quite another to be noticed back.

“I’d have kept an eye out for you anyway,” Morgana says as she pulls out her phone to type out a quick text to Sophia.

Please send help, she writes.  Hot girl next to me on plane. May die before arrival.

Sophia’s response is almost immediate:  SHAG HER.

Morgana huffs out a laugh.  You’re so predictable.

Shoot your shot,  says Sophia.

“Excuse me, miss, can you turn your phone onto airplane mode now? We’re about to take off.” A pretty young flight attendant taps on Morgana’s shoulder, and Morgana complies, slipping her phone into her pocket.

The aircraft rumbles down the runway as the engines power up, and Morgana squeezes her eyes shut as the plane takes off, focusing on the squeezing sensation and waiting for her ears to pop. The rumbling mellows out as they ascend into the sky, and the pressure in her head eases as the plane levels out. Morgana doesn’t usually have a problem with flying but she hates the initial takeoff and landing; the altitude change hurts her head and makes her a little nauseous sometimes. She feels a gentle hand on her arm and opens her eyes to see Gwen’s face peering over at her.

“Hey, you alright?” Gwen asks with concern. “Maybe you need the window seat more than I do.”

“No, I’m okay,” Morgana reassures. “The initial pressure just makes me a little dizzy sometimes. It’s sweet of you to ask though.”

Gwen doesn’t take her hand away, and Morgana takes this as an encouraging sign. She asks what course Gwen is studying in uni and the girl’s eyes light up. By the time the snack trolley rolls around, Morgana learns that Gwen is a third year working on a biochemistry degree, that her dad’s family lives in Manchester, and that she plays football with the university’s recreational team. Gwen asks for a cup of tea with two sugars when the trolley reaches them, and Morgana orders a coffee for herself. She teases Gwen about being an English stereotype and the girl blushes, protesting. 

“There’s nothing better than curling up with a nice cuppa and a good movie or book,” Gwen insists when Morgana just laughs at her. “You coffee folk are always throwing around tea slander.”

Morgana admits to her lifelong love of coffee and accepts Gwen’s criticism with a whiff of her beverage, blending the milk and sugar in with the little wooden stirrer. 

The girl’s earlier conversation with Connor had been deceptively stilted. It turns out that Gwen is quite chatty when she wants to be, and Morgana finds herself listening to Gwen ramble on about something distinctly scientific. Morgana doesn’t understand most of her vocabulary, but her earnestness makes her want to pay attention anyway, sipping her coffee with both hands wrapped around the paper cup. Gwen waves her hands around animatedly which is only a little bit reminiscent of a children’s cartoon, and Morgana gets distracted by the way her face lights up as she talks at a hundred miles an hour. Mesmerised by Gwen’s golden skin and beatific smile, Morgana just listens to the sound of her voice without really processing her words. Biology was always one of her worst subjects in school, and chemistry had definitely been a close second; she is big enough to admit that she’s a fairly standard stereotype of an arts student, utterly incapable of processing anything STEM-related, but she tries.

“Sorry,” Gwen says suddenly, sheepish. “I’m probably boring you with all this uni talk. I didn’t mean to go on like that, I just get really excited sometimes.”

“No! No, don’t be sorry,” Morgana says in a rush. “I like listening to you talk. You have a nice voice.”

Gwen reddens and she ducks her head to hide a shy smile. “Still,” she says, pink-cheeked, “I shouldn’t ramble on about my schoolwork to strangers, especially when I’m supposed to be on hols. I think I’ve just been at uni too long.”

“I know the feeling,” sympathises Morgana. “It’s good that you’re so passionate about your degree though! Your enthusiasm is really… refreshing.”

_ It’s really hot _ , she doesn’t say.

“Do you not like your degree then?” Gwen asks, a little frown creasing her brow.

“I would hope so, after all I went through to choose it,” snorts Morgana, her mind flashing back to one of her last interactions with Uther. 

It had been an argument, unsurprisingly. She’d been living at home at the time, feeling disillusioned about life after graduation and uninspired by the thought of working another year at Uther’s tech company. She knows she should have been grateful to have a job opportunity waiting for her after university when so many of her friends had spent all of fourth year stressing over their looming unemployment, so she’d tamped down on her feelings of suffocation and plodded through the following year. Eventually it became clear to Morgana that a life in marketing would eventually end in inevitable alcoholism and her own subsequent suicide, and she had made the decision to go back to school to start fresh. When she had informed Uther last year that she would be starting at Trinity the following autumn, studying speech therapy of all things, he had lost his mind, and she had moved out. 

At Gwen’s quizzical look, Morgana amends, “I just mean, my family wasn’t exactly supportive of my mid-twenties career change. My father certainly wasn’t happy about it.”

“What were you doing before?” asks Gwen.

“I’d gotten a Management degree, so going into marketing at my father’s company just seemed like the logical thing to do,” Morgana says.

“Except?”

“Except I didn’t realise that management is way more boring in practice than it was studying it in theory. If I never have to think about ‘developing pricing strategies’ again, I could probably die happy.”

“It’s great that you decided to go back to school, though. It must be especially difficult with your family being the way they are,” says Gwen sympathetically. 

“They’re not all bad,” Morgana relents, thinking of Arthur. “My brother can be a pain in the arse sometimes but he’s always been supportive.”

Just then, the plane rumbles beneath them and Morgana’s stomach drops, indicating the change in air pressure. She grabs the armrest instinctively but forgets that she’s been sharing it with Gwen and ends up clutching the back of her hand. She’s just about to pull away and apologise when Gwen flips her palm up and gives her a light squeeze, and Morgana decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth, squeezing back. 

“Turbulence is my least favourite part about flying, too,” Gwen says kindly, even though Morgana suspects it’s more of an act of comfort than a confession. She clenches her jaw through the wave of dizziness and tries to focus on her breathing.

“I’m fine,” she says through her teeth. “I just don’t like it when my stomach drops.”

The seatbelt sign flickers on above as the rumbling continues, and the pilot announces overhead that they’ve hit a rough patch of air and that everyone should stay seated, please. Looking around, she sees other passengers with expressions of concern, and their shared anxiety calms her nerves a bit. Morgana watches as a little girl tugs on the sleeve of her mother’s jumper with a worried frown, and the mother wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulder comfortingly. She feels a poke on her arm and turns around to see Gwen offering her an earbud, having already plugged it into one of the screens in front of them.

“To distract you,” Gwen explains, and Morgana smiles, accepting the proffered earphone gratefully. 

Gwen lets her choose the movie, and exclaims excitedly when Morgana picks some cheesy holiday flick. She scoots closer so she can see the screen better, leaning over the armrest and into Morgana’s space, close enough that Morgana can feel the tickle of her curls against her cheek. Even as her side begins to ache with the strange position she’s sitting in, Morgana stays perfectly still, not wanting to appear uncomfortable for fear of scaring Gwen off. Despite her best efforts, Gwen huffs and pulls away. Before Morgana has the time to mourn the loss of contact, Gwen lifts the armrest between them, pushing it out of the way and slides over the gap between their seats. She starts to lean into Morgana, head against her shoulder, when she stops.

“Is this okay?” she whispers, looking up at Morgana through dark lashes. Morgana nods, momentarily forgetting how to breathe.“Good,” says Gwen, sounding pleased.

She snuggles into Morgana’s side and replaces her head against her shoulder, turning her attention back to the film. After a few moments, Morgana allows herself to relax and the aches of discomfort from staying so still begin to subside. She leans her head against Gwen’s tentatively. When the plane doesn’t suddenly open up beneath her and drop her into the open sky, the tension in her eases some more. Pulling some of Gwen’s hair away from her own face, Morgana twirls it distractedly around her fingers and smoothes it down between them. She can feel Gwen smile against her shoulder, and her attention gets diverted from the movie again. She watches the actors on the screen play out their scenes, only half aware of the plot as she tries not to be overly conscious of every area where Gwen’s body touches hers. Halfway through the movie, Morgana’s eyelids begin to droop, and the feeling of Gwen’s fingers running over the back of her knuckles chases her into sleep.

~

It’s the light that wakes her up. 

Morgana squints as all the lights in the cabin suddenly switch on, blinking blearily against the glare as she starts to sit up. She stops as Gwen begins to stir, trying not to disturb her. 

The pilot’s voice crackles to life on the intercom again. “Hi, folks,” he begins. “Unfortunately, we have determined that the weather conditions have made it unsafe to proceed to San Francisco as planned. Due to the storm, we are being forced to land. As we are currently near Iceland, we will be landing at Keflavík Airport. The plane will be landing as soon as possible, and we will give you more information about the situation as we receive it. We apologise for the inconvenience this may cause you and thank you for your patience.”

The speaker cuts out, and his voice is replaced by the frenzy of the passengers around them. Morgana feels her heart rate speed up as her eyebrows climb into her hairline, almost not believing what she’d just heard. The rising volume and overlapping chatter from other alarmed travelers finally shakes Gwen from her slumber, and she sits up, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“What’s going on?” she mumbles.

“They’re landing the plane,” Morgana says.

“They’re what?” Gwen exclaims, shooting up in her seat. “Why?”

“Bad weather conditions. They said we’re going to have to land in Iceland.”

Gwen checks her watch, fully awake now. “We’ve been flying for over three hours already,” she says, dismayed. “It’s going to take at least another hour to land.”

It actually takes another two hours to land, by which point the tension in the cabin has eased slightly as people start to acclimate to their new situations. The lights dim as night falls, but Morgana can’t relax, finding herself restless. Gwen finally puts a hand on Morgana’s bouncing knee, gently but firmly, and Morgana flushes apologetically and stops.

“I’m just impatient,” she murmurs, looking past Gwen out the window. The lights of Reykjavik sparkle down below, gleaming through the darkness. “We’ve been circling forever.”

“I know,” Gwen says, sighing as she follows Morgana’s gaze out the window. She doesn’t remove her hand. “It’s no use stressing so much about it right now, though, we can do plenty of that once we get off the plane.”

When the pressure in the cabin finally drops, Morgana plugs her nose and pops her ears, too relieved to disembark to get anxious about the descent. The landing is shaky, and she forces herself to focus on the prospect of being on solid ground rather than the nausea rolling in her stomach. 

The overhead lights flicker on and there’s a collective stir of the passengers as they adjust, becoming alert again. The pilot’s voice crackles on the intercom, announcing their arrival in Reykjavik and asking everyone to disembark in a calm and orderly fashion. The disgruntled chatter begins once again as people start shuffling out into the aisles, muttering angrily to one another as they collect their things. Morgana ignores them as she switches her phone on, relieved to see that she still has service, and types out a quick message to Arthur. It’s noon in California, so he should get the message soon. She stuffs her phone in her pocket and stands up to grab her carry-on from the overhead.

They’re in the very last row, so Gwen and Morgana wait until most of the other passengers have cleared out before they can make their way to the exit, and Morgana’s actually relieved they don’t have to push through a crowd of people to get through. 

“Come on,” Gwen says once they’re through the gate. 

“Where are we going?”

The girl shrugs, and a loose curl falls into her eyes. She blows it out of her face. “I was just thinking we could follow everyone else, they seem like they know where they’re going.”

Morgana doesn’t have a better idea so she just nods and jogs to catch up.

The crowd leads them to the baggage claim, where half of the other passengers are huddled as they wait for the conveyor belt to bring out their luggage, and the other half are congregated around the help desk nearby. A few of the louder travelers are crowded closest to the desk, and Morgana watches a middle-aged man shouting at one of the help desk staff members, red in the face, as the other airport employees attempt to calm him down. 

“Let’s get our bags first,” Gwen decides, grabbing Morgana’s hand, and she lets herself be led to the conveyor belt.

While they’re waiting for their bags, Morgana feels her phone start to buzz in her pocket and excuses herself to answer Arthur’s call.

“Arthur?” she says, walking away from the baggage claim. She plugs her other ear to block out the noise from the other travelers. “Can you hear me?”

“You’re in  _ Iceland _ right now?” he demands. 

“Hello to you, too,” Morgana responds, parroting his words from their last call back to him. “Yes, I’m in Iceland. There’s a storm going on apparently, they had to land the plane.”

“Shit. When can you fly out?”

“Unclear. I haven’t even been able to look at booking new flights yet, since we’re still waiting to get our bags back, but I think they’re grounding all flights for the night.”

“We?” Arthur asks curiously. Morgana pauses, sensing she’s made a mistake. “Morgana, who are you with?”

“Just someone I met on the flight,” she says evasively. 

“Oh,  _ just _ someone you met on the flight,” Arthur responds, and Morgana can just  _ feel _ the innuendo in his voice over the phone. 

“Come off it,” Morgana snaps without any real heat.

“What’s her name?”

“Why do you assume it’s a she?”

Arthur just hums in response and doesn’t say anything, waiting expectantly.

“Her name is Gwen, okay?” she says after a moment, giving up the information reluctantly. “She’s a student in Edinburgh and she’s going to San Francisco to visit her family for the holidays, and we met in the airport and ended up sitting next to each other on the plane.”

“She sounds nice,” Arthur says, sounding far too amused.

“It’s not like that,” Morgana protests, except for the fact that it’s exactly like that. She throws a glance over her shoulder cautiously, as if Gwen can hear her thoughts from all the way over there. Gwen catches her eye and waves, smiling, and Morgana gives a little half wave back. Christ.

“We’ve only just met,” Morgana says as she turns back around, changing tactics. “She’s basically a complete stranger.”

“Hey, you don’t need to justify anything to me,” Arthur says with a laugh. “You can always get to know each other a little better, if you know what I mean.”

Morgana can hear his eyebrows waggling at her over the phone.

“I just wanted to check in with you, since this means you’re definitely not making dinner tonight,” Arthur continues, before she can protest against the innuendo. “At least you have a valid excuse this time. Let me know if you need anything, yeah? I can book you a new flight once they start getting planes off the ground.”

Morgana considers something sarcastic in response but decides against it, since he’s so kindly offered to pay for a new flight, and thanks him instead. “I’ll keep you posted,” she promises, and hangs up.

When Morgana rejoins the crowd of people, Gwen is trying to pull her suitcase off the conveyor belt, panting a little, and Morgana grabs a handle to help.

“Thanks,” Gwen says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Everything okay?”

“Just letting my brother know where I am,” Morgana replies, as her eyes light on her own suitcase plodding along the conveyor.

“I overheard some other people talking,” Gwen says, as she helps Morgana with the bag. “They said that the airline is giving out hotel vouchers for all the passengers on the SFO flight at one of the desks upstairs, so I figured we could probably head up there and grab one as soon as we got all our luggage.”

“Guess we’re really in it for the long haul, then, if they’re arranging accommodation,” sighs Morgana, shoulders slumped. She exhales as she drops her head back and cracks her neck with a wince. “Alright, then. Lead the way.”

The two women make their way upstairs, and they’re halfway up the escalator before Morgana fully processes the fact that they’re on their way to get a hotel room together. Well, alright, Gwen didn’t actually say  _ together _ , but the implication is there. She’d said that they should ‘grab  _ one _ ’, which would suggest that they would share it; Morgana doesn’t want to seem too presumptuous, but she also thinks that maybe she’s been getting the same sort of vibes from Gwen as she’s been putting out, unless she’s gravely misread the situation, in which case, oh, her head hurts. She needs a third party perspective.

She texts Sophia.  SOS need ur opinion

Sophia’s response is instantaneous, bless her technology addiction:  what’s up babe

Followed by: also aren’t u supposed to be on a plane rn

am in iceland, Morgana writes.  can’t tell if hot girl asked me to share a hotel room with her or not pls help situation is urgent

Her phone starts to ring and Sophia’s contact picture pops up on the screen, and Morgana quickly declines the call before Gwen notices.

am with her rn!!  she types out frantically. cannot call!!

ok ok,  Sophia replies, but explain. why r u in iceland. why r u sharing a room with a hot stranger. 

idk if i am, can’t tell if she actually invited me or if it was just a slip of the tongue

Sophia just sends back: ;) ;) ;)

filthy mind!  Morgana responds, rolling her eyes, and then taps out a quick rundown of the events that have transpired over the last few hours.  she said ‘one’, is that an invitation to share a room??

just go with it, Sophia texts. 

no but what if she’s just being nice???  Morgana types back.

don’t be so gay,  Sophia says, and then stops responding. Morgana knows her best friend is just trying to make a point by being dramatic and sends an angry selfie. Sophia leaves her on read.

They reach the front of the line for the help desk, and the airport employee smiles at them as they approach, albeit a little tiredly.

“Have you just arrived off the San Francisco flight?” she asks, and her accent sounds almost musical. Gwen tells her yes. The woman nods and her fingers clack as they move across her keyboard, eyes concentrated on the screen. “Great. Your airline has arranged for accommodation for you at Hotel Jazz for the next two nights. As you may already know, they will not be scheduling another direct flight to San Francisco, so we advise you to go online to book your next flights. Your hotel room also comes with food vouchers redeemable at the residence, as well as a free shuttle to and from the airport which departs every fifteen minutes. Are you traveling together?”

“Yes,” Gwen says, smiling at her, and then looks over at Morgana, as if checking in. Morgana gives her a nervous nod. Was this really happening?

“I’m sorry for all the other passengers, by the way,” Gwen adds after a moment, addressing the woman as she types something into the computer. “We saw some people who were also on our flight yelling at you and some of the other staff, and I just wanted to say that you don’t deserve that. You’re doing a great job, and you must be tired of having to deal with travelers like us all day. The delays aren’t your fault, after all.”

The woman looks up at Gwen, and her shoulders relax as she gives the girl a genuine smile this time. “ _ Takk _ ,” she says gently. “Thank you. That is very nice to hear.”

She finishes typing on the computer and the printer beneath the desk spits out a small handful of vouchers. “The shuttle leaves from Stand 18, through that exit,” she says, pointing, and slides the vouchers over the counter to them with a pat. “You are a very nice couple, I made sure to give you a room with a nice view,” she tells them, winking.

“Oh!” Gwen says, her cheeks reddening as she picks up the slips of paper graciously. Morgana thinks it’s a lovely colour on her. “Thank you very much. Have a good evening.”

“That was nice of you,” Morgana comments as they walk away from the help desk and make their way towards the shuttle stop. Now that they’re outside the building, the outdoors are bitterly cold, the icy wind stinging their cheeks. She zips her coat up to the collar. “Her face lit up when you complimented her.”

“That wasn’t because of me,” protests Gwen. “She’s just had a long day.”

“It was definitely you,” Morgana insists, cold air rushing through her hair. “You tend to have that effect on people.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gwen says, peering over at her teasingly. “And how would you know?”

“Personal experience,” Morgana replies, and the look Gwen gives her warms her so thoroughly that she hardly feels the wind biting at her skin.

After jostling around on the shuttle with other displaced travelers, they eventually manage to reach the hotel. Upon their arrival, Morgana is surprised to find that their accommodation is really more of a lodge, the outside tiled in cool grey slate and automatic sliding glass doors that open into a homely lobby. The wooden ceiling isn’t unusually low but there is a chandelier twinkling with warm lights that hangs just a couple metres above their heads, making the entryway seem more compact and welcoming. The walls are decorated with framed prints of different Icelandic landscapes and wildlife, and the floors squeak with the sound of many pairs of shoes shuffling towards the front desk to queue up. Gwen suggests getting some food before they check in, and Morgana agrees readily, stomach already rumbling at the prospect of a meal.

The dining room slowly fills with chatter as people pour in, and Morgana finds that she’s starving as they make a beeline for the buffet. She fills up her plate eagerly and waits for Gwen as she takes her time selecting through the dishes, and they find a table in the corner of the room and sit down to eat.

They’re quiet for the first few minutes as they dig in, too hungry to make small talk. Morgana finishes first, despite her best efforts to not stuff her face in front of the pretty girl, and ends up pushing a small portion of mashed potatoes around her plate as she waits for Gwen to catch up.

“People seem to have paired up,” Morgana comments, looking around at the room full of displaced travelers eating together. She recognises a woman she’d seen looking harried at the gate chatting with a man she’d seen at the baggage claim at one table, and another group laughing at something indistinguishable on the other side of the room. “I suppose disaster makes for good bonding.”

“Misery loves company,” Gwen agrees as she looks up at her.

“Are you miserable, Gwen?” Morgana says, leaning her elbows on the table. She puts a teasing lilt in her voice so she knows she’s only joking, but finds herself waiting for Gwen’s response with bated breath.

The woman frowns at this and wipes her mouth with a napkin, setting down her cutlery and pushing her plate away. “Well, I’m not delighted,” she says. “Um, I mean, no offense to you or anything, but I really did not intend on spending my Christmas Eve here in some Icelandic hostel with no plane ticket and nowhere to go for the next forty-eight hours. Or more! They said they weren’t sure when the storm was going to let up or when the next flights out were going to be, a-and I’m a student! I don’t exactly have a ton of spare cash lying around to spend on a new plane ticket, and God knows how expensive last minute flights during the holidays are going to be. And I’m not going to call my dad because I just couldn’t ask that of him, and asking my mum’s family for money just sounds like the worst start to a visit, as I’m pretty sure my stepfamily already hates me anyway, and I can’t–”

“Hey!” Morgana jumps in, before Gwen goes blue in the face. Startled, Gwen’s mouth snaps shut at Morgana’s sudden outburst. 

“Sorry,” Gwen mumbles, going pink-cheeked and looking obscurely embarrassed.

“Take a breath,” Morgana says, trying to lighten the mood. She takes a bite of potato, more to keep her hands busy than out of hunger. “No need to be sorry, I just thought I’d make some idle chat. Didn’t mean to set you off.”

Her traveling companion squeezes her eyes shut and looks annoyed with herself. “I know, I know,” she says. “I’m just– frustrated.”

“I understand,” Morgana says patiently. “You’re completely right to be. I don’t think anyone was planning for this.”

“I just don’t do well without… well, without a plan, I guess,” Gwen says, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a little anal-retentive sometimes.”

“Say it ain’t so,” gasps Morgana, which elicits a small smile from Gwen. “I never would have guessed!”

“Shut up,” Gwen says, and then immediately looks abashed. “I mean, er, sorry. I don’t actually want you to shut up, that was uncalled for, I know you’re just trying to help, and I don’t mean to be rude, I just–”

“Shut up!” Morgana laughs, waving her off. “You don’t have to apologise for saying what you think.”

“Right, sorry.”

Morgana gives her a deadpan look and holds up a hand when she sees the other woman start to apologise again, and Gwen closes her mouth meekly.

“How about we just go find our room?” Gwen offers, grabbing her tray and standing up. “I want to get out of these clothes.”

It takes Morgana a startled moment to turn those words over in her mind and register that Gwen isn’t propositioning her. She looks away quickly when she realises that her eyes are already following Gwen’s retreating figure and she reddens as though Gwen had heard her thoughts out loud.

“Y-Yeah, I could use a shower myself,” Morgana says, and quickly regrets her choice of words. She shakes her head to dispel the images of hot steam and soapy skin. God, she needs to get it together.

Her renewed determination only lasts as long as the walk to their room, when the door swings open and Morgana resists the urge to bang her head against the wall because the universe is just testing her patience and  _ of course _ there’s only one bed. Gwen doesn’t even pause, holding the door open for Morgana and wheeling her own suitcase into the room.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing,” Gwen says with a laugh, as she hangs her coat up and kicks off her shoes. She unzips her luggage and rummages around for a moment before pulling out a toiletry bag, making her way towards the shower.

“I don’t kick,” Morgana promises weakly as Gwen shuts the bathroom door with a smile. 

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and toes off her shoes as well, checking her phone for messages as she makes her way towards the bed. The pressed sheets crinkle slightly under her weight as she bounces onto the mattress.

Opening her phone screen up to Sophia’s contact info, Morgana waits for the sound of the shower to start before pressing the call button, biting her lip as it rings. 

Sophia picks up after the third ring. “Hello, caller! You’re on air with Sophia, here for all your late night romance problems! What do you have in store for me tonight?”

“You’re such a freak,” Morgana retorts, sinking into the pillows, letting her best friend’s voice wash over her like a wave of familiarity. 

“I know,” Sophia says happily. “You get to the hotel alright?”

“Yeah, we just had dinner. Gwen’s in the shower now,” Morgana says, and immediately regrets it when she hears Sophia wolf-whistle at her over the phone. She holds the cell away from her face until her friend stops.

“Why didn’t you join her?” Sophia teases, and Morgana can practically picture her making crude gestures in her mind’s eye, and puts her head in her hands.

“Forget I said anything,” Morgana huffs out a laugh. She rubs her arms absentmindedly. “I just wanted to check in with you. All this is making me… feel weird. Antsy, I guess.”

“That’s because you’re a bottom.”

“Fuck off,” Morgana without any real heat. “I’m not a bottom all the time. Anyway, it’s not the Gwen thing. She’s lovely. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a side effect of being in transit.”

“You think?”

“I just feel... jumpy. I’ve never really had travel anxiety before.”

Sophia’s quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, and when she speaks again, her tone is more sober, tentative. “And you’re certain this has nothing to do with seeing Uther soon?” she says gently, and Morgana lets out a groan, almost reflexively. 

“Not this again,” she protests even as Sophia speaks over her with stammered excuses. “I told you, I’m going home to see Arthur. I’ve made my peace with that relationship already.”

“No, I know, I know, you don’t want to talk about him,” her friend says placatingly. “I’m just  _ suggesting _ that perhaps you can be at peace with something and still be anxious about it, okay? It’s just been a while since you two have spoken, and–”

“It’s not him,” Morgana snaps. “It’s gotta be the travel, alright? It’s just been a very stressful journey, and I don’t enjoy being crammed in tight places with strangers, a-and maybe it is Gwen and being around her is messing with my head or something. So just fucking leave it alone.”

She hears the squeak of the shower faucet being turned off and she swears quietly. On the other end of the line, Sophia is silent but Morgana knows her best friend well enough to know the difference between her general silence and angry silence.

“Soph,” Morgana says with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

Sophia hums her acknowledgement on the phone but doesn’t respond, which Morgana understands to be the Sophia-version of pretending to inspect her fingernails.

“I just called because I wanted to hear your voice,” she says. “Talking to you calms me down.”

“Say more,” Sophia says, trying to sound unaffected.

“You’re my favourite person in the whole world,” Morgana continues. “Truly the smartest person of our generation. Some say you might be this century’s Einstein.”

“Keep going.”

“Cleverer than everyone in all the land and holier than the Queen herself,” Morgana says dramatically, unable to stop herself from smiling now. “The most beautiful woman in the entire world. Nay, the universe!”

“That’s more like it,” Sophia says with a smile in her voice. “I knew all that, I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“You narcissist.”

“It’s not narcissism if it’s the truth!” Sophia sings over the phone as the bathroom door opens, and a plume of hot steam escapes like an exhale from behind Gwen’s figure as she steps out. Sophia is speaking but Morgana misses whatever she’s saying at the sight of Gwen in her pyjama set. She’s wearing a pair of soft black drawstring shorts that ride up and make Morgana’s throat go suddenly dry, paired with a black tank top with pink polka dots stretched tight over her chest. She can see Gwen’s nipples pebble as she enters the cool air-conditioned hotel room, forcing Morgana to look up and away at Gwen’s face, and Morgana realises that she’s been caught staring. Fuck.

“Morgana? Hey, Crazy, are you still there?” Sophia is saying on the phone. Morgana quickly averts her gaze from the other woman’s body, face inflamed and glad to have a distraction.

“What? Yeah, I’m still here,” she responds. She darts her gaze up again to see Gwen looking at her curiously with a little frown as she towels her hair dry. “Sorry, Gwen just got out of the shower.”

“Oh, did she now?” Sophia drawls, suddenly understanding. “Well, that explains it.”

“Stuff it,” Morgana says with a huff. “I’ll talk to you later? And send me lots of pictures of Ulfric! I miss him.”

“Have  _ fun _ ,” Sophia laughs. “I swear that stupid cat is the only reason you’re friends with me.”

“You caught me.”

“Alright, loser. Love you, talk soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, babe,” Morgana says, hanging up the phone with a shake of her head. She smiles at Gwen, who’s still standing in front of the bed with a slight frown. “Feeling any better?”

“What?” her companion asks, as though surprised at being addressed. “Oh, yes, much better. Was that your brother?” 

“No, that was Sophia,” Morgana says, waving her phone slightly as though to signify Sophia’s presence. “She lives in Dublin so I thought I’d just let her know where I am. She’d kick my ass for telling people she’s codependent on me but it’s the truth! Honestly, the girl is lucky she’s cute because it lets her get away with so much.”

“That’s, ah, good, then,” Gwen says tightly. “Um, shower’s free.”

Morgana hops off the bed and goes to search through her suitcase for her toiletries as Gwen crawls onto the mattress, still absentmindedly wringing her hair. She seems distracted, her mouth twisted to the side as though concentrated on something Morgana can’t see, and there’s a tension in the air that hadn’t been there before. Damn it, she’d gone and made Gwen uncomfortable by ogling at her like some oversexed teenage boy. It’s just typical of her to ruin a good thing.

“Do you want to watch a movie when I’m done?” Morgana asks, wanting to break the strange silence as she rummages through her neatly packed clothes. “If you’re too tired, we don’t have to, of course, but it could be a nice way to wind down.”

“I– yeah,” Gwen responds, after a minute hesitation, and leans over to grab her laptop from her purse. She flips open the lid and the screen lights up her face as her fingers fly across the keyboard. “What do you want to watch?”

“I don’t mind, you can pick. Oh, maybe not horror, though. I’m kind of a wimp, but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

Gwen finally looks up at her and gives Morgana a small smile, and just for a moment, the tension eases.

~

When Morgana finally gets out of the shower, clean and warm and wrapped up in the fluffy white robe she’d found hanging behind the door, she leaves the bathroom feeling like she’s washed away the weight of the day’s events. She finds Gwen already under the covers with her computer on her lap and some romcom loaded up on the screen, tapping away furiously at her phone. 

She looks up when Morgana emerges and wordlessly scoots over to make space under the covers for her, and Morgana crawls under the sheets feeling obscurely pleased. With the laptop balanced on each of their thighs, Gwen starts the movie and turns off the lights on the bedside table, settling into the pillows as the screen lights up the room. 

There’s something comfortable about their silence that thrills Morgana in its unfamiliarity, and she forces herself to tamp down on the feeling lest she scare Gwen off again. As the opening credits roll across the screen, she’s careful not to let any part of her touch Gwen, but she’s almost hyper aware of the inch of space between their arms, which tingles as though their skin is touching anyway, and the smallest gap separating their bare thighs beneath the warm covers. 

Morgana forces herself to pay attention to the film, listening for Gwen’s soft exhales of laughter whenever something funny happens on screen. At some point, Gwen sits up to readjust, reaching over to turn the volume up, and when she leans back into the pillows, Morgana can feel the other woman’s arm pressing into her own. She holds her breath unthinkingly, sneaking a glance at her face, but Gwen keeps her eyes trained on the screen, and doesn’t pull away. 

It’s only when Morgana feels the tickle of soft curls on her shoulder that she notices Gwen’s head drooping, her eyes fluttering as she tries to stay awake. When Morgana leans over to close the laptop she feels Gwen stir next to her, protesting quietly.

“S’okay,” the woman mumbles. “You can keep it going, ‘m awake.”

Morgana huffs lightly, wanting to dispute it but feeling fond. She lets the movie keep rolling, even as Gwen’s head sags lower and lower, eventually coming to rest on Morgana’s shoulder as she snores softly. She finishes the movie, not wanting to disturb Gwen’s slumber, and quietly shuts the laptop, placing it gently on the bedside table.

In the sudden blackness of the room, Morgana finds it easier to breathe. She finds Gwen’s hand in the dark, squeezing it, and Gwen murmurs something indistinguishable as she shifts into a more comfortable position. Morgana slides down deeper beneath the covers, exhaling as she stares up at the ceiling in shadow, and wondering just what the hell she’s playing at. She nestles into her pillow and tries to close her eyes, as the scent of peach shampoo chases her into sleep.

~

“Let’s go exploring,” Gwen says the next morning at breakfast. 

Morgana laughs around a bite of her pastry, crumbs sticking to her lips. “Where to?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure there must be some things to see around here.” Gwen shrugs, stirring her oatmeal. “I’ve never been to Iceland before and we have some time to kill, so I was thinking we could take a walk around.”

They had checked with the front desk earlier to see if their flight had been rescheduled yet, which it hadn’t. Morgana isn’t surprised; the likelihood of new flights on Christmas day would have been too much of a miracle to hope for. So for the time being, they are stuck here. 

Morgana must have paused for too long swallowing her mouthful because Gwen’s expression morphs into one of sheepishness, suddenly shy again. 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to assume that you would want to come with me, of course,” the other woman starts to ramble, “I just thought it might be fun to do something today since it’s Christmas Day and I’ve never really spent the holidays alone before and I’ve been having a surprisingly good time with you even though we’re stranded here til God knows when and – ”

“I’d like that,” Morgana cuts her off easily, not bothering to tell her to stop apologising this time. “Just let me run back to the room before we go out, yeah? I want to change my shoes to something a bit sturdier.”

Gwen nods with a pretty flush of her cheeks and gratefully accepts Morgana’s brush over her rambling, and they finish eating in relative silence.

By the time they get outside, Morgana is grateful that she had thought to also grab a jacket and scarf, as the cold wind steals into the warm nooks of her body. The North Atlantic breeze stings at their cheeks, stinging Morgana’s cheeks red and tugging at Gwen’s loose curls. She offers Gwen a hair tie and pretends not to watch the other woman as she pulls her hair back into a lopsided bun, exposing the long, smooth line of her neck. Morgana looks away.

They walk down the paved street until the cement begins to break away into a dirt road, until the buildings and the shops disappear under the hill, and only the expanse of the sea and patchy green-brown mounds stretch out before them. Following the dirt until it gradually becomes sand and weeds beneath their feet, Morgana and Gwen make their way down to a coastal path that trails along above the sea. The tide is low today but the gentle sound of the waves slapping against the sand fills the air, and the ocean breeze carries all the way to the trodden path, salt stinging at their noses.

Gwen breaks the silence with a gentle laugh, and Morgana’s eyes dart up to watch her quizzically. 

“I feel… calm,” Gwen muses, and it feels as though there is more on her tongue but she struggles to get it out. 

“Is that bad?” asks Morgana, amused.

“No! Not at all. But I thought I would’ve been more upset about spending Christmas alone,” says Gwen, and her already pink cheeks blush again. “I mean–”

“I know what you meant,” Morgana laughs. “You don’t have to apologise so much, you know. You keep acting like I’m going to bite your head off for saying the wrong thing.”

Gwen mumbles something under her breath, towards the sea so that her words are lost to the wind.

“What?” Morgana strains to hear.

“Nothing,” Gwen says, annoyingly breezy. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a tease.”

“It’s just, you’re so...” Gwen gestures vaguely up and down at Morgana. “You know.”

“I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“I don’t know, intimidating?”

Morgana doesn’t mean to let her mouth drop open as theatrically as it does, and she snaps her jaw shut on reflex. Gwen, one of the most beautiful women she’s ever met in real life, thinks that  _ she _ is intimidating. She stares at her companion, unconvinced of this answer, and hearing the crunch of the sand beneath their shoes in the brief silence.

“You think I’m intimidating?” she demands – no, asks politely.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Gwen protests, biting back a smile. “I guess it can be kind of soothing because it makes me feel like you could take charge and I can relax around you.”

The mental image of Gwen tied up to the bedposts of their shared hotel room flashes unbidden across Morgana’s mind, and she shoos it away before it has a chance to settle in her brain.

“But I’m, like, a mess,” Morgana objects, redirecting her attention. “I truly cannot emphasise enough how much I don’t know what I’m doing in life. How can I be intimidating?”

“It’s just your presence!” Gwen says. “You’re very... commanding. And assertive.”

“How could you possibly know that?” insists Morgana, knowing that Gwen is entirely right. Based on the look on her face, Gwen knows it, too. “There must be a way to prove that I am not intimidating!”

She shouts this last part into the open air, throwing her arms up and knowing too well that she is being melodramatic, but hoping to get a reaction all the same. Morgana can already see Gwen beginning to roll her eyes in amusement so, encouraged, she jogs in front of the other woman, walking backwards as she talks and starting to tick things off on her fingers as she speaks.

“I’m in my mid-twenties, I’ve already gone through a major career change, I don’t have any money, and I don’t talk to my father,” she lists on her fingers. She is surprised to hear the detail about Uther slip from her lips, but it’s out there now and she can’t shove it back in so she presses on. “I also can’t drive, sew, or cook, but I do make a mean instant noodle.”

“Hey, there you go!” Gwen says exaggeratedly, smiling as she goes along with Morgana’s theatrics. “As long as you can make a pot noodle, who needs the other stuff anyway?”

“Exactly!” Morgana shouts triumphantly. “I have none of the other life skills and can barely boil water. Who could possibly find me intimidating now?”

Gwen insists she still thinks of Morgana as the big bad wolf, serious and ready to tell off all the stone-faced people at her old marketing job, but she’s grinning and her tone is light, and Morgana feels a thrill as she realises that Gwen is flirting back.

“You’re just so uptight,” Gwen is saying teasingly. “Do you sleep in your pantsuits, too?”

“How dare you accuse me of being uptight?” gasps Morgana dramatically. “Perhaps I should prove you wrong and go jump in the ocean right now.”

She raises her eyebrows at Gwen, daring her to tell her not to, and Gwen narrows her eyes at Morgana. They stop walking for a moment as Gwen tries to gauge her level of seriousness.

“The water’s probably negative five degrees,” she says with an unspoken challenge. “You wouldn’t.”

“You sound very uptight,” Morgana informs her wickedly, and takes off running towards the water. She can hear her heartbeat thumping in her ears as her trainers sink into the sand, chest heaving as she races across the seashore. She can hear Gwen’s outraged shout and the whistle of the sand being kicked up behind her as Gwen chases after her.

“Morgana!” she yells, but there is laughter in her voice and the wind carries the sound across the beach to Morgana’s ears, who can’t stop the smile from breaking across her face from the childish glee of pursuit as Gwen gains on her.

In a moment of pure immaturity, Morgana turns around and sticks her tongue out at Gwen, blowing a raspberry back at her. She delights in seeing Gwen’s cheeks flushed with exertion and her pretty pink lips parted in a scandalised O, and she laughs harder, doubling over. It is during the process of wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes that she misses the log buried in the sand in front of her and trips, just as Gwen catches up to her and stumbles over Morgana, sending them both down to the ground.

Something that must be Gwen’s elbow collides heavily with Morgana’s stomach and she lets out a wheezed ‘oomph’ but it doesn’t take the wind from her sails as she looks up at Gwen, marveling at the smooth curve of her jaw and the rosy apples of her cheeks. Wisps of hair have been shaken loose from her hair tie, falling messily into her face and from this angle, the pale morning light billows out behind her head like a halo. Gwen beams at her, completely unaware of the havoc she’s wreaking in Morgana’s chest. She can feel odd little lumps of sand sticking up into her back uncomfortably, crackly and slightly damp beneath her, but she doesn’t dare move. She just lays there panting, pleased with the weight and the warmth of Gwen’s body on top of hers and acutely aware of how close they are. 

Morgana’s eyes flick down to Gwen’s lips without her consent, and the overwhelming urge to reach up and kiss her runs uninvited through her mind. She can tell the exact moment that Gwen realises the same thing because the glint in her eyes flickers and she pushes herself off of Morgana quickly, rolling off to the side. Morgana allows herself to feel a pang of disappointment like a sinking stone before she pushes it to the back of her mind to process at a later date and sits up as well. 

“Okay,” Gwen says after she catches her breath, as she lifts her head up to look at Morgana. “You’re not intimidating anymore.”

Morgana punches the air with both fists, which makes Gwen laugh. They are both pink-cheeked and tired, squinting out to sea so they don’t have to face each other just yet, foam slowly creeping up towards their feet. Morgana watches the waves roll up to the shore and pulls her trainers on, tucking them under her as she hugs her knees. Feeling the weight of Gwen’s eyes on her, she looks up quizzically to catch the woman’s stare.

“What?” she asks, in a moment of rare self-consciousness. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Well, yes,” Gwen chuckles, reaching out to swipe a finger over the sand streaked across her cheek before Morgana can react. “But I was going to ask if your arse is starting to get as wet as mine.”

She stands up and brushes the sand off her jeans, then offers Morgana a hand up, who accepts. They continue walking along towards a lighthouse at the end of the beach, looming tall over the glinting water atop an outstretched pier. The open sands leave them exposed, and Gwen shivers as another wind blows by, whistling through her hair. She zips her coat all the way up, hiding her mouth beneath the collar, and Morgana doesn’t think twice about unwinding her scarf to throw half of it around Gwen’s neck. Gwen looks like she’s going to protest but after a brief internal debate written on her face, she accepts it gratefully. She tucks it more tightly around her to Morgana’s secret delight, as it tugs them closer together, and she can revel in their shared body heat for a little while longer.

When they reach the end of the beach, they climb the steps to the lighthouse’s entrance, finding it deserted and eerily quiet. There’s a tourist shop housed in a small structure built in next to the lighthouse but its windows are dark, and the shades inside drawn.

“Too much to hope something would be open on Christmas Day, then,” Gwen says with a sigh, trying to peer through the blinds. Morgana is less preoccupied with the contents of the shop, making a beeline for the old vending machine stood next to it. She punches the buttons on the keypad and rummages through the opening slot, fingers chasing her snack. She pulls out a bag of crisps triumphantly and waggles it at Gwen, who just shakes her head at her in amusement.

“We just had breakfast,” she says.

“Like two hours ago!” protests Morgana. “I’m a growing girl.”

They spot a token dispenser next to the entrance and Morgana drops a handful of coins in, delighted when the lighthouse door unlocks with a thud. She pushes on it gently, peering into a rustic stairwell as the gate creaks open.

“Creepy,” comments Gwen, squinting over Morgana’s shoulder.

“Oh, come now. Where’s your sense of adventure?” replies Morgana, already starting up the stairs. Her footsteps echo up the narrow building, bouncing upwards around the staircase.

“What if we get locked in here?” Gwen says hesitantly, but her feet have already begun to move.

“Then you’ll have excellent company at least,” Morgana says cheekily, flashing Gwen her most winning smile. Her companion rolls her eyes at this, but enters the building, taking two steps at a time to catch up.

The stairs are dimly lit by the small windows appearing at eye-level along the walls, which are cold to the touch. The divots and craters in the stone are shallow and plentiful, and it’s unclear at first glance if they are the result of age or teenage vandalism. The stairs open to the first level of the lighthouse, and Morgana sees Gwen visibly ease as the space expands, relieved to be out of the small space.

The overhead lights aren’t on, but the circular room is easily lit by the light streaming in from an enormous glass panel facing the sea. Around the room, photos and placards line the walls like a tapestry, black and white pictures next to panels of large print text.

Gwen heads to the window first, resting her elbows on the sill and staring out at the water, while Morgana is drawn to a large framed painting a few paces over. It’s grainy and the canvas itself looks weathered with age, tiny tears noticeable along the edges, but it’s the portrait itself that catches her attention. 

The painting depicts a dark room cluttered with unidentified objects, suitcases and muddy boots and trinkets lining every inch of the floor, and a desk lies unused in the corner, buried under stacks of books. From the window pours a stream of light, the only bright spot in the painting not occupied by the painter’s dark, muted tones. An older woman dressed in a pale pink nightgown sits on the edge of a bed, sheets rumpled and paint on the bed posts flaking. She is looking over her shoulder towards the window, and her face is missing, either due to overexposure to the light or a deliberate omission. The title at the bottom reads,  _ self-portrait 1919 _ . It takes her a second glance to realise that it is a painting of the room they are standing in now, a hundred years earlier.

She hears movement behind her as Gwen walks towards her, feels the gentle heat of Gwen’s breath on the back of her neck, but doesn’t turn around.

“I think she must have been the lighthouse keeper,” Morgana says, touching the place where the woman’s face should be. Her fingertips can feel the strokes in the hardened ridges of the paint, and she imagines the artist’s hand dipping the brush in the wet pigment, gliding the bristles over the smooth canvas so many decades ago. “She lived here.”

Gwen moves over to the side of the painting and scans a white placard with a few paragraphs of text. “Sæunn Haraldsdottir,” she reads, “keeper from 1889 until her death in 1920. It says that she lived out the last thirty years of her life here in relative solitude, rarely engaging with the locals unless it was necessary.”

“That sounds so lonely,” Morgana murmurs, still entranced by the painting. “Didn’t she have any friends or family?”

“It seems that everyone just left her alone mostly,” Gwen says, moving over to read more of the text on the walls. “Oh, gosh. It says that Sæunn’s husband and child drowned during a storm off this very coast, and she could never bring herself to leave so she just stayed here. Oh, that’s terrible.”

Finally breaking her gaze from the painting, Morgana drifts over to where Gwen is looking at another plaque and peers at it from over her shoulder, reading about the history of the lighthouse and Sæunn’s role in it. They spend the next while making their way around the circular room, inspecting the different photos and their matching descriptions until they’ve reached Sæunn’s painting again. Once they are finished reading the different placards, they make their way up a second, narrower flight of stairs. It’s longer than the first set but this time the stairs are made of metal, paint chipping off the edges and rust peeking through underneath.

It winds upwards in a spiral and light streams in from above, breaking through the stairwell hatch from the top. When they reach the upper most level, the stairs open into the small lantern room whose walls are entirely made from thick paneled glass. The faint sunlight peeks through from behind the clouds and beams in through the windows, reflecting off the lens of the dusty lamp that looms over them. From this height, they can see all around them for miles, both out to sea and back towards land. If Morgana squints, she can just about make out their hotel from here.

“The view is incredible,” Gwen breathes, and Morgana turns to see her staring out towards the horizon. Looking down, she sees the waves crash against the stones piled up against the pier, looking almost cartoonishly small from her bird’s eye view. “I could almost understand living here for thirty years if this is what Sæunn woke up to every day.”

“It’s kind of spooky, though, don’t you think?” Morgana remarks.

“How so?”

“Thirty years is a long time to live as a recluse, let alone in such an empty, echoey building,” she points out. “Don’t you feel like you could get scared being here all by yourself?”

“It’s a good thing I’m not alone then, isn’t it?” Gwen says easily, catching her gaze, and it feels like her smile warms Morgana’s chest. 

A minute later, Morgana decides to sit down on the floor, legs tired from standing for so long, with her back against the lamp lens. After a moment of consideration, Gwen joins her on the ground and she lets out a sigh as her knees pop, the sound echoing inside the enclosed space. Morgana goes to pull out the bag of crisps she had bought from the vending machine earlier and tugs the packet open, offering some to Gwen.

“I forgot you had these,” Gwen says with a laugh as she pulls out a few crisps between crumby fingers.

“What can I say, I’m a master of planning,” Morgana says gravely, and they munch their snack in silence for a few minutes, legs crossed and admiring the view.

“It is quite beautiful up here,” Morgana admits eventually, licking the salt off her thumb.

“I know it’s rather open, with the glass being so exposed and all, but it sort of feels like we’re all alone at the top of the world,” says Gwen. “It’s… peaceful.”

Morgana hums her agreement, and rummages in the bottom of the crisp packet for the leftover crumbs.

“Do you think Sæunn spent her Christmases like this?” Gwen asks.

“What, freezing her arse off on the metal floor and eating salt and vinegar crisps?”

Gwen snorts and elbows her, but it’s not very hard. “No, idiot,” she says affectionately. “Staring out at sea like this. Seems like a sad way to spend the holidays.”

Morgana thinks that Sæunn likely didn’t keep track of the holidays that often if she spent all her time cooped up in this lighthouse, but doesn’t say as much. Instead she folds the now-empty crisp bag into a little knot and sticks it in her pocket. “People just use Christmas as an excuse to spend time with family, don’t they?” she says nonchalantly. “Poor thing probably didn’t want the reminder of being the only one of her family left.”

“Gosh, that’s kind of morbid,” says Gwen sadly, and Morgana feels as though she’s punched a hole in Gwen’s boat.

“Christmas alone isn’t too bad,” she tries to revise. “I’m… it’s been a pretty decent Christmas with you.”

Gwen waves her off modestly, but looks pleased all the same. “Wouldn’t you still rather be with your family than some stranger you met less than forty-eight hours ago?” she says.

Morgana makes a vague dismissive gesture with a hand. “Trust me, you are infinitely more pleasant to be around than the people I would normally be spending the evening with,” she informs Gwen, who squints at her curiously.

“Does this have to do with your father?” she asks, and Morgana resists the urge to massively roll her eyes.

“Oh, god, now it really does feel like the holidays,” exclaims Morgana, flinging a hand over her forehead dramatically.

“Wow, you  _ are _ a diva,” Gwen says, seemingly before she can stop herself. Morgana pretends to look outraged but she’s struggling to suppress a smile. 

“Getting grilled about my father and being criticised for my sparkling personality? Merry fucking Christmas,” Morgana says with a light laugh. “It feels like I’m home.”

“That bad?” asks Gwen, wincing sympathetically. “I’m sorry you don’t like your family.”

Morgana exhales, considering her next words. She has avoided the topic of family for so long, both with her friends and with herself. She has tucked the complicated feelings she holds for Uther somewhere deep inside her mind and thrown away the key, deliberately throwing herself into her studies so that she doesn’t even have the time to dwell on the thought. Her mind quickly flashes back to last night when she’d snapped at Sophia for even bringing it up and feels a momentary pang of guilt again at her uncalled-for reaction. Morgana is just about to politely tell her to piss off and leave it, but when she meets Gwen’s steady gaze, warm brown eyes staring back with concern, something inside of her deflates.

“I don’t not like them,” she sighs reluctantly. “I quite like my brother, not that I’ll ever admit that to his face. And most of them aren’t… actively antagonistic towards me.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” Gwen says with a grimace. 

“I don’t really blame them,” says Morgana dismissively, as she has always done. Pretending not to care what Arthur’s relatives think about her tends to take at least a little bit of the sting out of it. “My brother’s mum died in childbirth so he was their golden prince, he could do no wrong. My mum was the ah, other woman, which I’m sure you can imagine did not endear me to Arthur’s grieving family. I don’t think they liked having a living reminder of the affair running around the house.”

“That sounds terrible. Stepfamilies can be… a difficult adjustment,” Gwen says softly, and Morgana remembers Gwen had mentioned something about her own family during one of her many ramblings.

“I suppose you could call them that.” She picks at a loose thread on the sleeve of her jumper. “My mum…” she hesitates, but Morgana has always had a soul made of fire and storms and she refuses to let the hurricane sweep her away. “She drove me to my dad’s place one day and dropped me off, and just never came back.”

Morgana doesn’t recall the exact moment when she had stopped waiting for her to return, a stolen breath held inside her chest for far too long, but she remembers the night Mum had driven her to a beautiful house on the other side of town. She had been nearly four, excited and awed by the way the lights shone through the enormous glass windows and cast shadows over the neatly trimmed hedges. Mum had parked the car in front of the iron gates and kissed Morgana’s forehead, smoothing her dark hair out of her face with shaky hands and gazing into Morgana’s eyes with a look of fear that her younger self hadn’t understood at the time.

“I think she just didn’t know how to deal with the responsibility of caring for me,” says Morgana, breaking out of the memory with an ache in her chest. “After the scandal of an affair, Uther’s family certainly wasn’t going to be shamed any further for turning away a child with their own blood. So I got to stay, but they made sure to let me know that I wasn’t really a part of the family. Ever the black sheep, I suppose.”

Morgana tries to restrain herself from looking at Gwen for as long as possible, not wanting to see the inevitable pity that she will find in her eyes, but eventually can’t resist. Only, she doesn’t find pity in the other woman’s eyes, instead it’s just her sweet face, expression gentle and a little bit sad.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen says simply, and reaches out to hold Morgana’s fidgeting hands in her own, giving it a squeeze. “You deserved to grow up without the weight of circumstances you couldn’t control, you deserved their compassion and their kindness as a literal  _ child _ , and you deserved to know that you are more than enough. I don’t usually condone speaking ill of people I don’t know, but your family sounds like a bag of dicks.”

This unexpected outburst startles a laugh out of Morgana as she looks down at where their hands are intertwined, and embarrassingly, she feels the sudden prick of tears at the corners of her eyes. Lifting her chin slightly, she blinks them back furiously, willing them not to fall.

“Seriously!” Gwen insists, still looking earnestly at Morgana as the corners of her mouth twitch. “How insecure in yourself do you have to be to bully a child? Where did you say they live again? I just want to talk.”

Laughing wetly, Morgana dabs at her eyes and feels an overwhelming rush of warmth for the woman by her side. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says honestly. 

“I’m nonviolent by nature but I can make an exception,” Gwen says very seriously. “It’s a holistic process, obviously. I’m not a  _ maniac _ .”

“It’s like watching a kitten try to get angry.” Morgana’s lips can’t help but twitch in amusement at her intensity. 

“Don’t laugh at me when I’m trying to beat up your relatives for you,” protests Gwen. “Here, I can even make it a New Year’s resolution so it’s in official writing.”

“You’re ridiculous!” Morgana laughs, and Gwen’s expression melts into something more playful and fond as she watches the tension ease from Morgana’s shoulders. 

“I know,” Gwen says, smiling at her. “Honestly, though. Fuck what your relatives think. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

Morgana realises belatedly that Gwen still hasn’t let go of her hand, fingers soft and nearly radiating with heat, and squeezes it. Gwen’s eyes are on her, sweet and searching for something unidentifiable. For a split second Morgana thinks she sees her gaze flick down at her mouth, just for a moment, and Morgana’s tongue involuntarily darts out to wet her lips.

This is clearly a mistake because rouge colours Gwen’s cheeks and she leans back slightly, leaving Morgana almost dizzily wanting and wondering where she had gone wrong. Gwen looks away, gaze returning to the ocean through the weather-worn panels of glass, and Morgana allows herself another second to study the strong line of Gwen’s cheekbones before she clears her throat as the embarrassment kicks in.

“Thank you,” she says, uncharacteristically shy. “I… appreciate that.” 

“Of course,” Gwen responds, still staring out at the waves folding into themselves in the tide. 

They sit there for a little while longer, listening to the squawk of the gulls circling outside the lighthouse and the crash of the sea against the rocks below. The sky stretches out before them and their silence settles into an easy moment of shared quiet until Gwen finally pushes herself to her feet, dusts her trousers off, and offers Morgana a hand up. They start making their way down the many stairs, and in the echoey chambers Morgana gets Gwen to tell her about her dad’s strange holiday traditions, laughter ringing in the stairwell. As they exit the lighthouse and cross the beach, feet sinking in the dips of the sand, Morgana finds herself telling Gwen about the way she and Arthur used to sneak downstairs on Christmas Eve to eat the cookies left out for Santa until they made themselves sick, trading stories all the way back to the inn. 

The sea air fills her lungs, and when she exhales, it feels like letting go of more than a breath.

~

Morgana tries not to overthink the way she catches Gwen watching her out of the corner of her eye, looking wrongfooted and unreasonably adorable when Morgana returns her stare with a raised eyebrow. Or the way Gwen comes up behind her as she’s browsing the bookshelves of the billiards room and rests her chin on her shoulder, and when Morgana turns her head just slightly their noses are so close that she can smell the sweet vanilla of Gwen’s chapstick. Or when Gwen discovers that the hotel has an indoor pool and gets so excited that she drags Morgana through the halls to check it out and doesn’t let go of her hand. But every time Morgana returns her smile, a beat of silence falls between them, just a moment too long, and then Gwen is pulling away again, stammering out some excuse to jump out of reach. Morgana tries not to look too deeply into the way her heart drops into the pit of her stomach each time it happens, but by the end of the day she is confused and frustrated in a way she hasn’t felt since she was sixteen and her best friend had kissed her behind the schoolyard and ignored her the next day. 

In the late afternoon, she finds Gwen in the lounge chatting with a small group of people that she vaguely recognises from the flight in and tells her that she’s going to take a walk before dinner.

“You should take a jacket, it’s getting chilly,” Gwen says, grabbing the coat hanging off the back of her chair and standing up to drape it over Morgana’s shoulders. “Here, borrow mine.”

Morgana offers her a smile that she hopes doesn’t come across too forced and exits the building through the sliding doors, the evening chills biting her cheeks with a sudden gust of wind. After a moment’s hesitation and against her better judgment, she dials Arthur’s number.

“I think I’m going to die in Iceland,” she says when he picks up.

“Okaaaay,” he says, and Morgana pushes the phone closer to her ear to hear him over the noise clattering around in the background. “Did something happen or is it just your time to go?”

“It’s so loud over there, where are you?” demands Morgana, ignoring him.

“Well, it’s Christmas day so I’m at a party,” Arthur says slowly, like she’s an idiot. Which she might be. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Oh. Right.” Morgana bites at the skin on her lower lip, cracking slightly from the cool, dry air. “Merry Christmas to you, too. Sorry, I don’t know how I forgot. I’ll let you go then.”

“No, no, it’s alright, I’ve already stepped out,” Arthur says, and the din quiets as she hears the gentle slap of his footsteps on the ground and the click of a door shutting behind him. “What’ve you done this time?”

She makes an offended noise that is absolutely not a squawk. “Why do you assume that I’ve  _ done _ something?”

“Have you?”

“No!” Morgana stops to consider this. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Why do I have the feeling this is about that girl you met?” Arthur asks, knowing her entirely too well. “Gemma? Gina?”

“Gwen,” Morgana corrects. “She’s driving me up the fucking walls, Arthur.”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” he says, and he does sound sympathetic. “Sorry she’s making you insane. That is a hazard of traveling with strangers, I suppose.”

“Not… that kind of insane,” Morgana says carefully. “You may have had a point about your first impression of my feelings for Gwen.”

The line is quiet for a moment but even Arthur’s silence is smug.

“Oh, fuck off,” says Morgana, annoyed.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Arthur protests, but she can hear him grinning.

“I can hear you smirking at me,” she accuses.

“You can’t  _ hear _ a smirk, that’s not a thing.”

“Well, then I must be a wizard because I can hear it right now.”

“Okay, okay, just tell me what Gwen’s done to do your head in,” says Arthur, conceding. “Being too nice? Being too sexy? Showing you common decency?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Morgana says exasperatedly, ignoring his snort. She tugs her zipper up to her collar as a sudden gust of wind whistles past, and then nearly groans aloud when she looks down at Gwen’s jacket. “I mean, no. Maybe. Shut up. It’s just that– every time I think I might actually be getting somewhere with her, she pulls away like I’ve burned her.”

“I hate to suggest it,” Arthur hesitates, “but could you possibly be reading into this? Is she even gay?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Morgana says, and slaps her forehead with an open hand. “What if she’s not gay? Oh my god, Arthur, I’m a fucking predator.”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” her brother assures hurriedly. “You’re not a predator, you’re just another useless lesbian who doesn’t know how to deal with her feelings.”

“Excuse me,  _ how _ long did it take you to tell Merlin you liked him?”

“And I don’t know if she is or is not interested in women,” Arthur barrels on loudly, ignoring her, “all I’m saying is maybe just don’t get too invested in this Gwen person? I care about you too much to see you get hurt.”

“You always have to ruin things by being sappy,” Morgana says, but her voice is fond. “I’ll … take that under advisement. I think I just needed to get my frustration off my chest.”

Morgana gets him to tell her all about Uther’s work dinner, more out of morbid curiosity than anything. Arthur recounts his and Merlin’s Christmas Eve last night, and she laughs out loud at the mental image of Merlin dolled up in his reindeer onesie. Before long, Arthur’s getting called back to his party and the sun has started to sink lower on the Icelandic horizon, so Morgana begins the trek back to the hotel.

~

Gwen flags her down from one of the tables near the buffet lines. She’s sitting with a few other people, and Morgana gives them a little wave as she goes to collect her food from the buffet line. 

“Morgana!” Gwen calls out happily as she approaches, pulling out a chair next to her.

“Hey, you,” Morgana says, and the silverware on her tray tinkles as she sets it down. She gives a little nod of greeting to the three other people sitting at the table. “Hello.”

“Hiya,” says a girl with a mop of messy blonde hair, flashing a gap-toothed smile at her. “I’m Elena. This is my boyfriend, Percy.”

She indicates the large man next to her, looping her arm around through his and patting his enormous bicep like a puppy. He would be, by all accounts, an intimidating man, towering over Elena and stern in appearance with his short-cropped hair, were it not for the besotted expression on his face as he looks down at his girlfriend. 

“Nice to meet you,” says Percy, and his voice is a low pleasant tone.

“And I am their third wheel,” drawls the dark-haired man next to them. His words sound annoyed but his twinkling eyes and the ghost of a grin on his lips betrays his joviality. “Most people call me Gwaine,” he says smoothly. “Though you can call me whatever you want. Gwen, love, you didn’t tell us how gorgeous this one was.”

“You talked about me?” Morgana asks, ignoring Gwaine’s wink to look over at her companion, surprised. Gwen blushes and stammers out something barely intelligible. “Only good things, I hope.”

“I would love to hear about the bad things,” Gwaine purrs, and Percy elbows him hard. 

“Sorry about him, he’s not usually let out of his cage,” apologises Percy, glaring at his friend. “Thinks that just ‘cause he’s as a gay as a muppet he can say whatever he likes.”

“I don’t subscribe to labels,” protests Gwaine. “I’m just a man who loves love.”

Morgana quirks an amused eyebrow at Gwen, who gives her a sheepish look as if to say ‘they’re nice people I promise’. Despite herself, Morgana finds her mouth tugging into a relenting smile and forces her shoulders to relax, and Gwen reaches over to place her hand on top of her own, squeezing lightly in thanks. Morgana tries not to overthink it.

In spite of a rocky start, the trio turns out to be good company and their dinner companions sling teasing banter back and forth across the table, voices gradually growing louder in the wake of their laughter. Elena is a bewitching storyteller, describing the group’s road-tripping exploits in grandiose and elaborate detail that must be an exaggeration for how unbelievable they are, making Gwen choke on her food on more than one occasion. Her boyfriend is the epitome of a gentle giant, eyes always shining as he watches Elena spin her tall tales enthusiastically. Even Gwaine reveals himself to be quite funny, when he isn’t being an outrageous flirt; it’s almost a shame he chooses to use his wit for awful pickup lines and smouldering looks. Morgana finds herself grinning stupidly wide at certain points, almost unaware that she’s doing it. 

Elena shows them pictures of her dog, a patchy brown Saint Bernard that makes Gwen coo as she swipes through her photo album. The blonde girl looks absurdly small next to both Percy and the dog, which makes Morgana laugh.

“Tor is technically my dog,” Percy interrupts, and Elena shushes him fondly as she and Gwen huddle over her phone. “Lennie just spends a lot of time with him and spoils him with treats, and now he’s leaving me for her. I swear she’s only dating me so she can gradually steal him away from me.”

“I would never do that to you, baby,” Elena says, blinking up at him innocently. “I wouldn’t need to steal him,” she adds, feigning a whisper conspiratorially to Gwen. “Tor knows where his loyalties lie.”

“He’s adorable,” Morgana says as Gwen hands the phone to her, swiping idly through the album. “I’m not going to lie, I’m more of a cat person but he’s just so precious.”

“Aww, you have a cat?” Elena exclaims. “Do you have any pictures of them?”

Unable to resist the opportunity to show off pictures of Ulfric, Morgana takes out her phone and starts scrolling through her camera roll for photos of a plump orange tabby.

“Oh, here he is,” she says, showing the screen to her companions. “This is Ulfric.”

“Strange name,” Percy remarks, peering over Elena’s shoulder to see, and Morgana shrugs.

“He’s a strange cat,” she responds. “Besides, I didn’t name him, Sophia did. Oh, that’s her right there.”

Elena stops swiping, pausing on a selfie Sophia had sent of her and Ulfric, the latter looking very grumpy as she smothered his face in kisses. It had made Morgana laugh so she had saved it.

“He looks so grumpy,” Gwen comments, echoing Morgana’s thoughts.

“She looks fit,” Gwaine pipes up, straining to see the screen. Percy elbows him again, almost reflexively. “Is she single?”

Morgana laughs. “No,” she says. “Definitely not.”

Gwaine looks almost comically dejected and sits back down in his seat with a huff. Gwen, inexplicably, mirrors Gwaine’s disappointment for a split second, before she carefully masks her expression so quickly that Morgana wonders if she’s imagined it.

“Did you leave him at home?” asks Elena, still scrolling. She spears a piece of broccoli from Percy’s plate without even looking and munches absentmindedly.

“Er,” says Morgana. “Technically, he’s Sophia’s cat, so it’s sort of the same situation as you guys have with Tor. He just spends a lot of time with me because Sophia goes out of town on the weekends, so we like to say we have joint custody.”

“When did you guys get him?” asks Gwen, and there’s a strange lilt in her voice.

Morgana scrunches her nose up as she thinks about it. “Only six months ago, but he's made me the happiest woman alive,” she says, very seriously. 

“I could do that,” Gwaine says wistfully. Elena throws a spoonful of mashed potatoes at him and it hits him square on the forehead, making him jump up in dismay as he tries to wipe the mush from his hair, and the conversation moves on as the table erupts in giggles. 

Morgana catches Gwen stealing glances at her again through her laughter — abashedly pink and watching her from under pixie lashes — and feels younger somehow, like the first few weeks at uni, when she’d been eighteen and living away from under Uther’s roof for the first time, and everything felt new and exciting. 

She thinks about Arthur’s warning to be careful, and compares it to Gwen’s smile. She thinks about his words when Gwen scoots her chair a little closer and Morgana feels the casual press of Gwen’s ankle against her own, thrilled at the zing of excitement that races up her leg. She thinks about what Arthur might say if she told him his warning had already come too late, as Gwen leans over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She thinks she might already be doomed the next time Gwen’s hand brushes against the back of hers, so Morgana turns her palm over and laces her fingers through Gwen’s, and thinks  _ fuck it, I’m all in _ . 

~

After dinner, they move to the billiards room for drinks as the night settles in. Percy and Gwen get into an excited debate over some tv show Morgana has never heard of while Elena scans the bookshelves. Morgana plays a few rounds of billiards with Gwaine, hustling him for a few euros and crowing gleefully when she wins.

“You cheated!” Gwaine exclaims, slamming a fist down on the green cloth. “Hustler!”

“Don’t be a sore loser, love,” Morgana croons, and rattles the coins in her hands to hear them clink against one another. “You hear that? That’s the sound of victory.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been hurt by a pretty face,” he sniffs, but he challenges her to another round so Morgana figures he can’t be all that upset.

As the night winds down, the noise dies down and people begin to trickle out of the common room. Morgana finds herself flopping down on a lounge chair next to Gwen, slumping bonelessly over the armrest dramatically. Gwen laughs.

“Tired?” she queries.

“Winning all the time is just so  _ exhausting _ ,” Morgana says, grinning as she watches Percy and Gwaine argue over the pool table. 

“Oh, I bet,” Gwen says seriously. “It’s hard being on top all the time.”

“Hm, I had you pegged as more of a bottom,” Morgana says innocently, and cackles outright when Gwen’s mouth drops in startled outrage and bats a hand at her.

“Hey!” Gwen yelps as she swats at Morgana’s laughing face, who defends herself against half-hearted blows. Morgana thinks she’s defending herself quite well as she holds her hands up against the other woman in the struggle until she sees the wicked gleam in Gwen’s eyes, and then Gwen is changing tactics as she starts pinching Morgana in the side. 

She finds herself gasping for air as Gwen tickles her, feeling fingers digging into the soft section of her stomach, and feeling a little too giddy. Gwen looks delighted to be gaining the upper hand on her, hair falling into her face as she pushes Morgana playfully into the couch, and looks so unbearably beautiful that Morgana thinks she might explode. 

So she reaches out and grabs Gwen by the wrists, stopping her wandering fingers. It pulls her unexpectedly close and steals her air away in a way that she doesn’t think she can blame on the tickling.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathlessly. Gwen’s eyes are so big now, wide as they search her face for something she can’t quite find, and flick down towards Morgana’s mouth. Morgana imagines Gwen reaching over and kissing her, fierce and warm and strong, here out in the open in front of– well, not that many people, but publicly nonetheless. 

Then Gwen pulls back, looking almost wistful, and Morgana wants to bang her head against a wall in frustration.

Gwen stands up suddenly, cracking her joints as she stretches and not meeting Morgana’s eyes. “Let’s go swimming,” she says, and Morgana is caught off-guard. 

“O-Okay,” she says slowly, rising from the couch uncertainly. 

They make their way over to where their new friends are arguing over the record player to say goodbye, and Gwen and Elena make sure to exchange socials before heading back to their shared room. Morgana hasn’t packed a swimsuit and hesitates at the thought of wearing a bra and underwear into the pool, uncharacteristically self-conscious and unusually quiet. She doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence.

Luckily (or unluckily? she can’t decide) Gwen offers her extra swimsuit, chucking it at her and laughing herself silly when Morgana nearly falls over trying to catch it. She can’t help warming at Gwen’s pleased expression, so carefree and relaxed as she turns around to rummage for her own suit, and utterly unaware of the series of irregular heart palpitations she’s causing in Morgana’s chest.

The suit Gwen has lent her is a simple red two-piece and Morgana changes quickly, trying not to think about it too hard and throwing an oversize shirt over it. When she comes out of the bathroom, flicking off the light as she goes, she finds Gwen lying on her back with her head hanging off the bed, phone held up above her face as she taps on the screen furiously. At the sound of Morgana’s exit, she rolls off the covers in one swift motion and smoothes down the fabric of a loose blue dress, the purple straps of her swimsuit peeking out from the collar.

“Ready?” she asks, and Morgana lets her lead the way.

The dusk light fills the pool room, streaming in faintly through the enormous glass wall opposite the entrance. The window faces out towards the ocean, overlooking a stretch of sea-soaked stones and a lengthy drop down to the water below. The room is nearly empty, save for an older woman dozing on one of the lounge chairs with a book half open in her lap, abandoned in her slumber. At the sound of their entry, she starts awake gently and looks around blearily, as though coming back to her surroundings. Morgana gives her a small apologetic smile for waking her as she and Gwen walk around the woman’s lounge chair, and gets a grumpy glare for her trouble.

They take the chaises closest to the sea and Morgana approaches the window, peering outside to watch the tall grass and brittle trees flap madly in the whistle of the wind. In the reflection of the glass, she watches Gwen undress, hearing the rustle of her clothing as she pulls the dress over her head. 

“I’m going to swim a couple laps,” Gwen says, raising her arms to stretch, and Morgana’s eyes drift down her body unthinkingly. Her head snaps up as soon as she realises she’s staring, and shakes her head.

“You can go in first,” says Morgana, as Gwen steps into the pool, hands skimming gently over the surface of the water. The dark-haired woman walks to the edge of the pool and sits, hugging her t-shirt-covered knees to her chest. “I’ll just wait a bit.”

Gwen laughs, already waist-deep. “Wait for what?”

_ For my heart to stop fucking pounding, for one _ , Morgana thinks, but does not say.

“I’m digesting,” she protests. “We just ate.”

“Yeah, like two hours ago,” Gwen says and smacks the water lightly, gently sprinkling Morgana with a light spray. “What are you waiting for, a sign?”

“I was thinking more like divine intervention,” muses Morgana with mock seriousness, but she untangles her legs from her shirt and dips her feet into the water tentatively. 

“I’m about as divine as you’re going to get,” Gwen says, and then flushes as she realises how that sounds. 

“Well, when you put it that way.” Morgana waggles her eyebrows, earning a laugh from Gwen, and an exasperated grumble from the guest on the other side of the deck, who mutters to herself as she gets up to leave with a put-upon expression. Morgana bites her lip, both women waiting until the pool door entrance swings shut behind the stranger before dissolving into a heap of giggles. 

“Are we really so annoying?” Gwen manages through a snort. “Did you see the way she glared at you?”

“Me? Oh, no, don’t you pin this on me, that was for the both of us,” retorts Morgana. “She just couldn’t take the heat.”

“Had to get out of the kitchen.” Gwen beams at her, and Morgana realises she’s holding her breath. 

She exhales and forces herself to stand up, shucking off her tshirt in part just to keep her hands busy, and then she is standing in nothing but Gwen’s bikini feeling unusually self-conscious. For a moment it almost seems like Gwen’s cheeks grow a little pinker, but perhaps it’s just a trick of the light, a reflection of the warm bulbs illuminating the water lapping at her chest, and then it’s gone again.

“So are you gonna get in, or…?” She looks up at Morgana from the water expectantly.

Morgana takes a moment to look off into the distance, as though deep in thought. “Hm, no,” she says, tapping a finger to her chin. “I thought I’d get half-naked on the pool deck and then just stand here.”

“Suits me,” Gwen says innocently, starting to back away from the edge of the pool, waterline rising higher on her body as she steps deeper. Morgana tuts at her, mock-offended, but the cool air is starting to chill her bare skin so she climbs into the pool, hopping in with a splash. The initial contact is shocking as the water hits her chest, and she shivers as she feels the goose pimples race along her body, her nipples pebbling in the cold. 

“J-Jesus,” she says, teeth chattering. 

“Come on, let’s do a few laps,” Gwen says, already beginning to paddle towards the other side. “It’ll warm you up.”

They swim the length of the pool a few times in relative silence, except for the sound of their feet kicking the surface and the water slapping against the walls, until Morgana comes up for air, tired. Gwen stops, too, but Morgana waves her on, and she takes off again. Wading to the edge of the pool, Morgana takes the opportunity to catch her breath. Evidently, it's been a while since she's gone for a proper workout and her stamina has waned in the meantime. As she moves to lean on the wall, she watches Gwen do another lap, arms pinwheeling through the water and head bobbing above the surface. 

She takes the moment away from Gwen to steady herself, feeling obscurely off-balance. Since their near-miss in the lounge earlier, Morgana feels like she’s been on the edge of her seat, like she’s waiting for something to loosen the unchecked tension between them, pulled taut like a tightrope. It's not like her to be nervous about making the first move; Sophia had even made her a mug that read SHAMELESS TOP for her last birthday, in response to which Morgana had laughed so hard she'd fallen off her chair. 

But it’s different with Gwen, somehow. She hasn’t felt this mix of giddiness and frustration since she was a teenager, the uncertainty making her irrational. Perhaps it’s the yuletide atmosphere affecting her judgment, causing her to pine after another beautiful stranger, although Morgana is the last person to subscribe to holiday cheer. 

Or maybe it’s just Gwen, she thinks, as Gwen swims over to her lazily, bobbing on the surface.

“Quite the athlete, I see,” Morgana comments as Gwen pulls up to the pool’s edge. 

“Yeah, I’ve thought about going pro,” Gwen says seriously, and quickly ducks underwater. She comes up a moment later, smoothing her hair back, her wet curls dripping in rivulets down her collarbones. It’s hard not to stare. “You’re lucky you get to witness me in all my athletic prowess for free, I’m quite in demand, you know.”

“I can imagine,” laughs Morgana.

There’s a little brown ringlet of hair plastered awkwardly across Gwen’s forehead, so Morgana moves forward to swipe it away, realising belatedly that the other woman has tensed up at her touch.

“What are you doing?” Gwen’s voice is so soft it almost gets drowned out by the gentle lapping of the water against the pool walls.

Morgana dares to step closer, firmly in Gwen’s space now with just a few inches between them, and lets her hand linger as she tucks the strand of hair behind Gwen’s ear. She’s careful not to make a sudden move, as though afraid to spook a wild animal. As though at any moment Gwen could make a run for it. “What do you want me to do?”

The invitation hangs suspended in the air and Morgana holds her breath, waiting for Gwen to say ‘oh gosh, I’m so sorry but I’m not– y’know,’ or move away, or tell her that Morgana has been reading far too much into her kindness and has greatly misread the situation. 

She prepares herself for a rejection, but Gwen doesn’t pull back, just looks up at her with a deeply unreadable expression. Morgana’s hand has drifted from Gwen’s ear down to her arm, just above the elbow, just barely touching her below the surface. Despite the chill of the pool, Gwen’s skin feels hot beneath Morgana’s fingertips, even through the buffer of the water. 

“I want–” Gwen starts, but the thought seems to die on her tongue. 

Morgana feels the brush of a hand against her thigh like a shock of lightning, and isn’t sure if Gwen even realises she’s done it. There’s barely an inch between their faces now, and she is so close she can see the water droplets trapped in the clumps of Gwen’s dark lashes. She can smell the scent of chlorine mingling as it rises off their skin, can see the soft rise and fall of Gwen’s chest, and wonders if Gwen can hear the sound of her heart pounding in the small space between them. Morgana thinks about closing her eyes as Gwen leans in, but the thought of not being able to see the way her lips part almost unthinkingly seems like an unbearable travesty.

Then Gwen jerks away abruptly, like bursting a bubble, and Morgana almost falls over in the sudden absence of her presence. 

Gwen takes a step back but it feels like a mile, and Morgana just barely resists the urge to hit something in frustration. The woman looks embarrassed as she turns away to face the open window, the moonlight from outside illuminating the deep flush darkening her tan skin.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Morgana says before she can stop herself.

“Doing what?” 

“See, there you go again!”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Gwen’s insistence upon feigning ignorance would be a lot more funny if it didn’t sting so badly.

“I mean–” Morgana steps forward with exasperation and grabs Gwen’s hands, barging into her personal space, “–acting like you don’t want to kiss me, too.”

Gwen glances down at their joined hands, reflection distorted in the water, and her face twists up as she looks away. “I never said I didn’t.”

“Then what is it?” Morgana can’t stop the helpless laugh that escapes her, feeling confused and obscurely wrongfooted. “Have I done something to upset you?”

The look Gwen gives her then is strange and unreadable. “I don’t feel right about this,” she says, gently pulling her hands out of Morgana’s. “I just didn’t think you were that kind of person. And... I don’t want to be responsible for you doing something that you might regret.”

“What kind of person?” Morgana asks. It feels like she’s missing half of the picture.

“A  _ cheater _ !” Gwen bursts out, distressed, and Morgana can’t do anything but stare at her in bewilderment.

“What on earth are you talking about? Who am I cheating on?” she asks, heart hammering in her ears.

“ _ Sophia _ ,” Gwen says accusingly. “Your girlfriend?”

Morgana does smack herself in the forehead now as the last piece of the puzzle slots into place, the confusion in her mind clearing like clouds on a sunny day. “Sophia’s not my girlfriend!” she says, almost grinning with relief.

“Don’t laugh,” Gwen says crossly, arms folded across her chest, but the expression on her face is equal parts peevish and hopeful. “What do you mean?”

“She’s just my best friend,” promises Morgana. “How could you have thought we were dating?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you say I love you to one another and talk about her like she’s your significant other?” Gwen says, like it’s obvious.

“I’m affectionate,” Morgana protests. 

“You have a cat together!” Gwen yells, voice bouncing around the room. “That’s like, the biggest lesbian stereotype there is!”

“I only have Ulfric on the weekends,” Morgana defends, raising her volume to match Gwen’s. “Which is when Sophia goes to visit her long-distance  _ boyfriend _ who lives in Shannon!”

They stare at each other as the echo of Morgana’s voice dies out, chests heaving. Gwen looks like she still wants to argue further, conflicting expressions wrestling for control until she seems to settle on mortification and covers her face with her hands.

“I’m going to go throw myself into the Icelandic Sea now,” she says, words muffled.

Morgana does laugh now: a clear, ringing laugh of surprise, and it’s like the tension is broken. Gwen peeks out at her from between her fingers, cheeks still pink.

“Were you jealous?” Morgana teases, and gets a faceful of pool water in response.

“Shut up,” Gwen mutters, embarrassment forgotten, surging forward to grab Morgana’s face in her hands and kissing the peals of laughter out of her mouth entirely. 

Gwen’s fingers are cool against her cheeks but her lips are warm, and Morgana finds her hands gripped around Gwen’s wrists and loosens them reflexively, sliding them down to the other woman’s waist instead. She kisses back harder, tasting chlorine and the vanilla of Gwen’s chapstick, and feels a thrill of delight as Gwen’s tongue swipes experimentally inside her mouth. Morgana lets herself shiver, goose pimples rising along the nape of her neck and no, it’s definitely not from the cold.

“Stupid–” chides Gwen between breaths, pulling away just long enough to attach herself to the sensitive juncture of Morgana’s jaw and throat, “–frustrating–” Gwen bites the soft patch of skin and Morgana lets out a gasp, “–deliberately obtuse idiot.”

“I wasn’t being– oh, fuck.” Morgana’s protests get cut off as Gwen trails a line of kisses down her neck, pushing the soft spandex of her top out of the way and closing a hot mouth over her breast, tonguing furiously at her nipple. She feels Gwen palming her other tit, pinching gently through the fabric, and thinks she might have peaked right here.

Then Gwen slides her hands south and Morgana takes it back because this is  _ so _ much better. She feels the dull scratch of Gwen’s nails as she grazes across the tender flesh of her inner thighs, trailing fingers over her clit teasingly, separated only by the thin layer of swimsuit fabric. Gwen looks up at her through thick lashes, one hand between Morgana’s legs and the other on her chest, eyes smouldering, and Morgana is so fucking turned on.

She tugs Gwen, who releases Morgana’s breast from her mouth with a truly obscene pop, up to eye-level by her hair and takes only a second to marvel at Gwen’s cherry-red lips before pulling her into another scorching kiss. She inhales her as easily as air, wonders how long she can go without breathing and hopes it’s forever.

Pressing their bodies closer, Morgana sighs into the kiss as her nipples rub against the textured fabric of Gwen’s bikini top, and thinking, despite their state of undress, that they are still wearing far too many clothes. She’s just about to say so when Gwen runs two fingers between her folds, pushing into her through the fabric, and Morgana leans into the pressure urgently, feeling her skin prickle with need.

“Touch me,” she gasps, and her words get swallowed by Gwen’s mouth. Gwen, who smiles against her lips and relaxes the movement of her fingers, torturously slow, undeniably smug when Morgana ruts into her hand with embarrassing desperation. Morgana tightens her grip in Gwen’s hair, pulling it with a gentle force that she seems to like, because she moans shamelessly into the open room.

With Morgana’s arms thrown around Gwen’s neck, hands tangled in her curls, Gwen pushes her up against the edge of the pool. Morgana waits for her back to hit the wall, expecting to feel the cool tile against her skin but it never comes. The angle is all wrong and they are farther away from the edge than she’d thought, and the force of Gwen’s movement knocks her off balance. She feels her footing give way, and Gwen stumbles into her as they both go crashing, their tangle of limbs flailing as they hit the water.

Morgana surfaces quickly, gasping from the sudden shock of cold. She flips a wet curtain of dark hair out of her face and looks around for Gwen, who’s coughing on pool water as she emerges a few feet away, rubbing at her face and looking as surprised as Morgana feels.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, but she’s still smiling, rosy-cheeked. Morgana tugs her in close with an eye roll and kisses her, just because she can.

“You know,” she says, kissing the tip of Gwen’s nose when they finally break apart, “we do have a hotel room.”

“Rather forward of you,” Gwen murmurs absently, going back in to capture her lips in a searing kiss that distracts Morgana quite effectively for another few minutes.

“Okay, but  _ really _ ,” protests Morgana when she remembers what she had been saying. “A whole room all to ourselves, where we’d be a lot more comfortable and have much more privacy.”

“That’s an interesting thought,” Gwen says thoughtfully, hands creeping around Morgana’s waist. This time she does manage to back Morgana up against the steps, pushing her gently down to sit on the shallowest stair so that her body is mostly out of the water. Morgana leans back without thinking, the rough granite of the pool deck pressing not unpleasantly into her sensitive skin, almost painfully aroused as Gwen comes to kneel in front of her, movements slow and deliberate.

“Counter offer,” continues Gwen casually, already pulling Morgana’s legs apart. She hooks her fingers around the waistband of her swimsuit bottoms, and Morgana lifts her hips to allow Gwen to drag them down to her ankles, giving a squeak as Gwen takes the opportunity to lift her up onto the pool deck with surprising strength. Morgana’s now entirely out of the pool with hands propping her up from behind, bikini top pulled sloppily to the side exposing her breasts, bare ass on the tiles and thighs spread in a truly pornographic display. She hardly notices gentle air conditioning cooling her skin as Gwen advances up the next step, settling between her legs. Morgana trembles.

“We stay here,” she says, dragging a finger up and down between Morgana’s folds, brushing over her swollen clit and causing Morgana’s stomach to clench fiercely, “and I fuck you right here on the poolside.”

Morgana can’t even think of a rebuttal, snark or no, because Gwen slips inside her with a delicious curl of her fingers that causes a moan to escape from her lips. The woman pumps her digits in and out, thumb never leaving her clit as it rubs rough circles to the rhythm of each thrust, and Morgana throws her head back, eyes fluttering. She feels Gwen readjust between her legs, her other hand raking gentle nails across Morgana’s belly.

“God, you’re so fucking wet for me,” Gwen says in a low croon, pleased. “Dripping all over my hand, you’re absolutely filthy. You like how I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

Unable to string together a coherent sentence, Morgana bites her lip and inclines her head, holding in another moan as a spasm wracks her frame. Gwen notices, judging by her sharp intake of breath.

“Don’t hold back,” she says, voice low with arousal. Gwen’s thumb speeds up, pressing into her clit vigorously in a way that makes stars appear in the corner of Morgana’s vision. “Are you afraid someone might hear you?”

Morgana nods furiously, still trying to be quiet, gasping slightly as she watches Gwen’s slick, shiny fingers slide in and out of her, and it’s so unbelievably erotic that she can’t help but stare, transfixed.

“Maybe someone will hear,” continues Gwen, almost lazily, her tone of voice not matching the vigorous pace of her hand. “Maybe someone will come in and see you like this, half naked and utterly debauched. They’d see you on your back for me, legs shamelessly spread wide as I work you open like this, panting and gasping with your wet hair plastered all over your bare tits like some ethereal fairy goddess. They’d see your nipples–” Gwen trails her other hand up Morgana’s ribcage to pinch one rosy peak between her fingers, and Morgana does moan out loud now, “–all perky and hard, the swell of your tits so perfect just like a fucking marble statue.”

Rubbing her nose against Morgana’s thigh, Gwen says, “And then they’d see you, coming, without me ever having put my mouth on that pretty pink cunt of yours.” She gently bites the sensitive juncture of her inner thighs as her thumb hits  _ just _ the right spot on the underside of Morgana’s clit, and then Morgana stops hearing her speak altogether. She hardly notices her own hand slip from beneath her, knocking her down to her elbows as her orgasm rolls through her, back arching as she cries out and feeling Gwen’s soft fingers work through her climax.

She feels the sore ache of emptiness as Gwen gently slips out of her and mourns the sensation of fullness inside her, laying flat against the cold linoleum as she catches her breath. Morgana stares up at the speckled ceiling of the hall and laughs out loud, almost dizzy with satisfaction, and the sound echoes around the room.

“Someone’s looking well pleased with themselves now, hm?” Gwen says, pushing herself on deck and sounding entirely too smug for Morgana’s liking. 

“Shut up,” Morgana mumbles, echoing Gwen’s earlier words as she pulls her into a searing kiss that does distract her rather effectively for a while. Eventually Morgana comes up for air, admiring the swollen redness of Gwen’s mouth and running a thumb over her lower lip. 

“Okay,  _ now _ I really feel like we should get out of here,” she says, peering at their surroundings over Gwen’s shoulders. She’s suddenly acutely aware of her top pushed lewdly to the side, her swimsuit bottoms hanging perilously around her ankles, and her legs spread like the filthy image of an off-duty pornstar. 

“Mm,” Gwen hums, distracted as she goes back in to nip at the sensitive skin around Morgana’s throat. Morgana wriggles, torn between telling her to stop and wanting her to continue. “I’m having quite a bit of fun right here.”

“I don’t know, I could use a shower myself,” Morgana offers innocently. “Last I checked, our shower seemed big enough for two.”

Gwen does raise her head at this, pausing to consider it. “Well, I am a bit chilly,” she concedes.

Morgana grins wickedly. “Care to join me?”

“Race you!”

Gwen pushes herself off her and makes a mad dash for the door, stopping only to grab her bag on the way out, and Morgana makes an outraged noise as she scrambles to her feet. She hops awkwardly as she struggles to pull her swimsuit back into place, chasing after Gwen only once she’s certain that she’s covered all the essentials.

Getting back to their hotel room takes far longer than it really should, mostly due to the fact that they get distracted and end up stopping every few paces to make out in the hallways like a couple of horny teenagers. They finally stumble into their room, giggling and breathless, still kissing as Morgana pushes her into the bathroom, tugging on the clasps of Gwen’s bikini with one hand and shoving the shower door open with the other. 

Somehow the shower gets turned on eventually in the course of their fumbling, too caught up in the heat of each other’s bodies to pull away for even a moment to pay attention to their surroundings. A hot stream of water pours down over them, slick and warm against their skin as Morgana presses Gwen back against the smooth tiles and shoves a knee between her thighs, with her hands splayed across Gwen’s naked chest. The other woman moans into Morgana’s mouth, the sound rumbling low in her throat as she grinds her swollen clit onto Morgana’s leg, frantically seeking friction. 

Normally, Morgana likes to tease; she likes the thrill of the lead up, the way the urgency in the other woman’s eyes builds to an aching desperation as Morgana pulls back, again and again, until she  _ begs _ for it. 

But Gwen has one hand clenched tightly in Morgana’s hair, tugging her thick locks a little painfully, and the other hand curled around the curve of Morgana’s arse, scratching red marks into the soft milk of her skin in sharp lines of pleasure-pain. She’s babbling almost incoherently, as though she doesn’t realise she’s even speaking out loud, while Morgana paints her neck with hickeys and pinches her hard nipples in between her fingertips, whispering hot, filthy things into Morgana’s ear. It’s so painfully sexy Morgana can’t fucking stand it, pulling away from Gwen’s soft, wet collarbone with an indecent pop. She would draw this part out more usually, making every touch frustratingly light and coy, but she can’t seem to stop  _ touching _ Gwen and needing to have all of her at once. Morgana thinks that Gwen moaning might be the most divine thing she’s ever heard, the heat of the sound settling low in her core, and she throws all of her practiced seduction routine out of the window.

She doesn’t give Gwen a chance to whine her disapproval before she drops to her knees on the tiled shower floor and spreads Gwen’s thighs, pulling a leg over her own shoulder as she presses her face against Gwen’s swollen centre. 

Morgana eats her out until Gwen’s fingers start tightening in her hair as she laps at her swollen clit, tasting the heady tang on her tongue until she hears Gwen cry out above her, inner walls clenching around Morgana’s spit-slick fingers curling sweetly inside her as she drives the other woman over the edge. Gwen’s legs are quivering as she rides out her orgasm, and Morgana supports her weight as Gwen gives in to the tremble of her limbs, sinking down to the shower floor beside her. She captures Morgana’s lips in an intoxicating kiss as the hot water washes over them, the taste of Gwen’s cunt mingling on their tongues. 

Gwen’s scent is still just as saccharine as before but the atmosphere is less frenzied now, slower and more gentle as she kisses Morgana, open-mouthed and erotic. She finds herself smiling into Gwen’s kiss again, almost lightheaded with the simple, wild pleasure of this moment.

“Satisfied?” Morgana asks with a grin.

“Hm, I’ve been better,” Gwen says nonchalantly, but her voice catches and she’s still breathless so it takes the heat out of her words.

“Are you always so insufferable after sex?” Morgana says, rolling her eyes as she leans over to shut off the water, the handle squeaking as the shower stream slows. She starts to get to her feet, rubbing the red circles on her knees from where she had been kneeling on the hard tile.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gwen retorts, and her tone is light and teasing, but the tremor beneath her words betrays a tentative hopefulness. Morgana stops, feeling the sudden tonal shift and conscious of the weight of her response.

“I hope to,” says Morgana, looking down at Gwen from where she is still sitting on the shower floor, “if you’ll let me stick around long enough to find out.”

“I think I could be convinced,” Gwen beams, eyes sparkling. Morgana kisses her again, just because she can, and pulls her to her feet, dragging them both over to the soft, dry sheets of the hotel mattress for a little more persuading.

~

Their flight isn’t rescheduled until the day after Boxing Day, but Morgana almost doesn’t mind. They spend the next few days tangled between the sheets, exploring each other’s bodies with a delight Morgana hasn’t experienced since her early teenage years, leaving the room for meal times and the occasional stroll along the chilly Icelandic coast. The next time they go for a walk on the beach, Morgana doesn’t hesitate to wind the ends of her scarf around Gwen’s as their shoes crunch in the sand, feeling warmed as Gwen loops her arm through the crook of her elbow, pressing into her snugly. It feels like a switch has been flipped and the floodgates have opened, and suddenly Morgana can’t get enough of her, constantly startled by the realisation that she’s allowed to touch her like this. Every time Gwen smiles at her, it feels like being hit with a blast of the icy north wind and she forgets, for just a moment, that their time together is borrowed, a slice of Icelandic paradise trapped in holiday limbo.

“Hey, you. Whatcha thinking about?” Gwen tugs on a strand of Morgana’s hair, voice just short of a playful whine. “You’re so quiet over there.”

Morgana smiles at the woman on her arm despite herself. They haven’t talked about the future yet, or what sticking around would really mean for either of them, but it’s a beautiful day and she doesn’t want her doubt to ruin a perfectly lovely walk, so she just shakes her head instead.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, and pokes Gwen’s scrunched up nose fondly. “I was just admiring the view.”

“You’re such a flirt,” Gwen laughs. 

Morgana acts mock-horrified. “I certainly am not,” she denies. “I was talking about the ocean view, if you must know.”

“ _ And _ a bad liar, too, apparently,” continues Gwen breezily, looking away to hide her smile. Morgana wants to argue but Gwen’s false smugness is adorable and it catches her off-guard. She lets Gwen have this one, and kisses her cheek.

When they get back to the hotel, Gwen facetimes her mum and Morgana leaves her in the room for some privacy, heading down to the bar for a drink. She orders a gin and tonic as she takes a seat on one of the stools and pulls her scarf off, her cheeks already warming from the heat inside the building. Pulling out her phone, she sends Arthur a text reminding him of her arrival time tomorrow, and responds to a picture of Ulfric that Sophia has sent her with a string of hearts. She taps out a message to her best friend about the updated situation with Gwen before hesitating, finger hovering over the little send button. Morgana normally wouldn’t hesitate to tell Sophia everything, but she hasn’t told anyone about recent events with Gwen yet, not even Arthur, and to be honest, she has been enjoying the secrecy of it. Morgana likes the privacy when it’s just the two of them, as though the whole world is made up of the sparks caught between them like fireflies, like the brush of Gwen’s toes grazing against Morgana’s calf or the hitch of her breath against Morgana’s cheek when they lie facing each other beneath the covers. It’s like the small moments expand to encase them in a protective bubble, and maybe it’s irrational, but it feels as though the tentative film surrounding their relationship might pop if anyone were to know about it yet.

She hits the backspace button on her keyboard and deletes the message.

“Well, hello again,” says a voice near her ear, and Morgana nearly jumps a foot in the air. She catches her drink before it topples, steadying it before she turns around to see Gwaine pulling a stool up next to her.

“Christ, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Morgana demands, as he waves down the bartender.

“Sorry,” Gwaine chirps, not sounding very sorry at all. “A little jumpy, are we?”

“Only when people sneak up on me without warning,” she grumbles, and takes another sip of her drink. “Percy was right, you should come with a bell.”

The man winks at her, tousling his mop of dark hair. “Oh, I’ve got one,” he says cheekily, laughing when Morgana rolls her eyes at this. “Merry belated Christmas, by the way.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, right. Cheers, same to you, I suppose. Though I did see you on Christmas day.”

“I know,” Gwaine says, “I just thought I’d say it again, seeing as you seem to have gotten merrier since I last saw you. Had a  _ good time  _ with Gwen, have you?”

Morgana coughs, spluttering as she inhales mid-sip. “Excuse me?” she croaks, eyes watering. “Did she say something to you?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Gwaine reassures her, pounding her on the back as she wheezes. “Deep breaths, love. I’ve just been known to have a sixth sense about things like that. I suppose I’m something of a love guru.”

Morgana eyes him suspiciously as her coughing subsides. “You’re a strange one,” she tells him, and he inclines his head.

“Elena calls me a freak quite often,” he agrees. “Am I wrong, though? You don’t have to say if you’re not comfortable with it, I’m just a nosy bugger.”

“No,” Morgana admits, and waits for the sky to fall at her confession. It doesn’t. “Gwen and I… had a nice Christmas.”

“Good,” Gwaine says easily. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“So, are you getting the flight tomorrow morning as well?” Morgana redirects, changing the subject before the man asks any more questions she doesn’t have answers for. “The airline told us the flight had been rescheduled.”

“Aye, it’ll be good to finally get going,” Gwaine agrees with a swallow of his drink. “Although, this little Icelandic detour has been quite delightful. Love a new experience. Bit inconvenient with the timing, I suppose, but what can you do?”

“I don’t know if it’s the season or the setting, but I feel a bit isolated from the world here,” Morgana muses, swirling the remnants of gin in her glass, staring as the liquid sloshes up against the sides. 

“We  _ are _ on an island.”

“No, I know,” Morgana protests with a faint smile. “I just mean it’s so removed from my regular life! I’m generally a creature of routine, and this whole situation is just… not my usual life. It’s like I’m in this weirdly perfect, Christmassy, Icelandic bubble, and it’s just going to shatter as soon as I leave.”

“Like a snow globe,” Gwaine says.

Morgana lets out a huff of laughter. “Yeah,” she sighs. “Like a snow globe.”

“It doesn’t have to shatter, you know,” Gwaine tells her. “The snow doesn’t have to melt.”

She frowns at him. “We’re flying out tomorrow morning.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” responds Gwaine, far too knowingly for a stranger on holiday. Morgana feels uncomfortably scrutinised, as though he called her out without any words at all, a quiet accusation of feigned ignorance. The glint in his eye reminds her, shockingly, of Arthur for a moment; just as nosy as her little brother, and far less daft than he pretends to be. “But hey, maybe I’m not the right person to be speaking to about this. Personally, if a woman as beautiful as you told me she didn’t want our little  _ winter wonderland _ to end, I might drop everything to make sure Christmas goes on forever, but that’s just me.”

Morgana does laugh at that, gratefully taking hold of the levity he has injected into the conversation. “You just never take a day off,” she says teasingly, and he dimples at her with a grin. “Is that what you do, you just flash those pearly whites at people and they swoon?”

“Pretty much,” Gwaine agrees. 

“How does that work out for you?”

He shrugs. “I do fine,” he says, uncharacteristically modest, and then leans in as though telling her a secret. “But at least I try. Never have any regrets that way, y’know?”

Morgana thinks about the way Gwen’s hand fits in her palm, the soft apples of her cheeks growing pink when she blushes, and the thought of relegating these sights to mere memory inspires equal fear and fondness in her. She doesn’t want to shatter the illusion of their yuletide honeymoon, but if the alternative is leaving Gwen’s smile behind in Iceland… 

“I understand,” Morgana says, answering the unasked question.

~ 

The flight from Keflavík Airport to San Francisco International runs smoothly, and the tension in the airports seem to have settled after the initial Christmas rush. It’s a nine hour flight, but the plane isn’t too full and they both have plenty of legroom. This time, Gwen doesn’t hesitate to nestle her head in the crook of Morgana’s neck, and Morgana is too pleased by Gwen’s hand in hers to even think about the inevitable stiffness as they alternate between watching movies and talking about everything under the sun. 

Well, almost everything. 

They don’t talk about the future, the world that looms outside waiting for them after they step off the plane. Morgana tries, like she said she would, but every time she starts to bring it up, she gets so nervous that a new wave of nausea rolls through her. She ends up feigning airsickness.

It’s the middle of the afternoon when the plane finally touches down in SFO, and Morgana yawns, stretching her jaw to pop the pressure in her ears as the captain’s tinny voice rings out over the intercom. She checks her phone, flipping it off airplane mode as the flurry of people around them get out of their seats, rustling through the various pockets and storage containers to retrieve their affairs. 

“Hey,” Gwen says, nudging her gently. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” says Morgana, tucking her phone away. “Just wanted to check if Arthur’s arrived yet.”

By the time they go through customs and retrieve their luggage from the baggage claim, Morgana has received a text from Arthur informing her that he is waiting outside with the car. 

“Well,” Gwen says nervously as they pass through the sliding doors that lead them to the arrival gates, stopping suddenly. Their shoes sound loud against the white linoleum of the airport floor, squeaking with each step, and the air finally feels clean and fresh as the narrow halls expand into the high rise ceilings of the San Francisco airport. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Morgana echoes dumbly, fingers drumming anxiously against the handle of her suitcase, full of excess anxious energy. “Where are you going now?”

“I’m going to get a taxi to Mum’s,” says Gwen, gesturing vaguely ahead of them in the direction of the taxi ranks. “What about you? Has your brother gotten here yet?”

“Er, yeah. He’s downstairs,” Morgana replies lamely, pointing to the right towards the elevators.

“Cool,” Gwen says awkwardly. She fiddles with the straps of her backpack, twisting them around her fingers.

“Cool,” Morgana repeats, and then immediately screws her face up in embarrassment. It’s so awkward she thinks she might burst into flames on the spot. “Fuck, this shouldn’t be so weird.”

“Look, you don’t owe me anything – ” Gwen starts, looking uncomfortable. She had begun to reach out for Morgana’s arm but apparently thought better of it, hand pausing mid-air, and it makes Morgana’s heart drop to the pit of her stomach. God, she’s fucking this up so badly.

“Do you want to come over?” she blurts out, cutting Gwen off in the middle of her sentence. It catches Gwen off-guard, blinking up at Morgana in bewilderment at the sudden redirect.

“Not right now,” Morgana clarifies quickly. “You probably want to get home and see your family right now. But, um. I think Arthur’s throwing a New Year’s Eve party, if you want to come with me.”

The smile that creeps across Gwen’s face is slow and shy, and she does reach out for Morgana’s hands now, clasping them in her own as they swing lightly between them. She squeezes, and Morgana marvels at just how much reassurance she derives from that one gentle movement, shoulders loosening reflexively.

“Okay,” Gwen says, looking down at their joined hands, still smiling. “I’d like that.”

Morgana lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and fights a full-blown grin, not very successfully. “Good,” she says decisively. “Me too.”

“I probably need your number for the details then,” says Gwen innocently. “For the party, I mean.”

“Oh, God. Yeah,” Morgana starts as she pulls out her phone, having forgotten about the logistics of basic communication completely. The last few days have felt so long as they were practically attached by the hip that it hadn’t even occurred to Morgana that they hadn’t exchanged any contact information. “Just for the party details. No personal calls on this number.”

“Of course, you’re a professional,” Gwen plays along but still rolls her eyes, unable to muster that much seriousness into her response as she leans into Morgana’s space. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Whatever witty retort Morgana had been planning to say gets cast aside as she meets Gwen in the middle with a sound kiss that warms her to her core, despite the December draft breezing through the airport. Gwen throws her arms around Morgana’s neck, the awkward tension dissolving as Gwen nips at her lower lip, licking into her mouth with a gentle tongue teasingly. Morgana pulls Gwen’s body closer, hands snaking around the other woman’s hips, fingers halted by the blockage of Gwen’s backpack. She stifles a moan as a hand fists the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging just the way she likes, acutely aware that they are still, unfortunately, on public display.

“Okay,” Morgana gasps, finally pulling back with kiss-swollen lips as her phone starts to buzz incessantly in her back pocket. “Okay, we need to stop or I’m not going to be able to resist dragging you to the toilets and having my wicked way with you.”

The mischievous grin Gwen gives her then almost makes Morgana’s knees buckle, and she congratulates herself for having the strong enough will to stay standing. “ _ No _ ,” Morgana says firmly. “Airports are  _ filthy, _ Gwen.”

Gwen just laughs and goes back in for another kiss, shorter this time, and she pulls away first when Morgana’s phone begins to buzz again.

“You should probably get that,” she sighs, her arms still wrapped loosely around Morgana’s neck as Morgana finally retrieves her phone. 

“It’s just Arthur,” Morgana says, tapping out a quick response with one hand, wholly distracted as Gwen peppers her cheek with small kisses. 

“You should probably go find him,” Gwen says between a flurry of pecks.

“Probably,” Morgana agrees, but makes no move to disentangle herself from Gwen’s arms. Gwen smiles.

“I’m really glad I met you,” she says softly, staring into Morgana’s eyes intently. “I know we only met a few days ago, but… this feels a bit like destiny. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No,” Morgana admits, a little starstruck at hearing the words tumble from Gwen’s pretty mouth as easily as a fresh snow. “I feel it, too.”

Gwen kisses her again now, with such soft longing that it makes Morgana ache, and she tightens her grip on the other woman’s waist. They could have gone on for much longer, except this time it’s Gwen’s phone buzzing that distracts them, and Gwen pulls away with a breathless chuckle.

“That’ll be Mum wondering how long I’ll be,” she says, resting her forehead against Morgana’s. “We must really be stretching it thin now.”

Morgana unwinds Gwen’s arms from around her neck so she can hold her hands again. “I’ll see you at New Year’s, then?”

“Yes,” Gwen says, and Morgana tries not to take it as a promise. “I think you better go now, before your brother sends a search party after you.”

Gwen unlaces their fingers and takes a step back, tightening the straps of her backpack. Morgana seeks out her suitcase, wrapping her hands around the handle to give her something to hold onto, and the cold metal is a poor replacement for the warmth of Gwen’s palm. The way the low afternoon light streams through the plated airport windows illuminates Gwen from behind, crowning her hair in the golden glow of the setting sun. Backlit by the halo of fading daylight, even in her casual travel clothes, Gwen looks impossibly regal, and Morgana feels as though she is standing at the crossroads of a very important moment. She takes a second to commit the scene to memory, eyes lingering on Gwen’s retreating back even as she turns the corner towards the lifts.

~

  
  


The cold air hits Morgana like a blast as she emerges into the Californian December, spotting Arthur leaning against his car. He looks up from his phone when she calls his name, a smile spreading across his face as she approaches.

“Hey!” Arthur says cheerfully, embracing her warmly. “Long flight?”

“The longest,” Morgana laughs, and tousles her little brother’s mop of blond hair. “But a little Icelandic detour is far from the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Arthur takes her luggage from her and pops the lid of the boot, helpfully stowing her things in the back while Morgana hops into the front seat. It’s been a while since she’s been back in the States but Arthur’s car hasn’t changed, save for a couple more empty water bottles in the backseat and a new car freshener dangling from the rear view mirror. The familiarity is comforting.

“Excalibur is looking well,” she comments as Arthur slides into the driver’s seat.

“She needs a bit of a wash, but she’s as reliable as always,” Arthur says fondly, patting the dashboard. “Merlin and I took a drive down Highway One a couple weeks ago and I haven’t had a moment to clean her yet, so she’s still a little dusty.”

“Oh, I am excited to see that boy of yours!” Morgana exclaims as they pull out of the airport pickup area and ease onto the road towards home. “You waited for me, right? You haven’t proposed yet?”

She watches a blush rise on Arthur’s cheeks as he keeps his eyes trained ahead of him, uncharacteristically pink and nervous. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it mindlessly, and she recognises the familiar tic of trepidation. 

“Not yet, no,” he says. “I was going to do it at our New Year’s party, I think. I’ve got the ring and everything, just. Waiting for the right moment.”

“Oh, good,” Morgana sighs. “I was worried I’d miss it with my flight delay. Oh, this is so exciting! My little brother’s getting  _ married _ .”

“I still have to ask him,” Arthur laughs, but he looks pleased. “You’ll be there, right? At the party, I mean.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He looks over at her as they ease to a stop in front of a red light, smiling at her.

“What?” Morgana asks.

“Nothing,” Arthur says, and reaches over to squeeze her hand. “I’m just glad to have you home.”

Unexpectedly overwhelmed by her brother’s earnestness, Morgana just squeezes back, unable to speak over the warmth in her chest and the lump in her throat. Arthur understands.

“Speaking of the New Year’s party,” Morgana says a while later, clearing her throat. “I invited Gwen to come along, if that’s okay.”

“Gwen from the flight?” asks Arthur, with feigned casualness.

“Yes, Gwen from the flight.” 

Morgana waits for his response, holding her breath. She’s expecting some kind of pushback, maybe a reprimand about getting in over her head with strangers, or even a teasing remark about U-Hauling, but Arthur just looks over at her and says simply, “Okay.”

“Really?” she says, almost not daring to believe her ears.

“Do you want me to say no?” Arthur responds with a grin, indulgent. “Because I can, if that’s what you’d like.”

“No, no,” Morgana says quickly. “I was just expecting to have to do a little more convincing.”

“Consider my curiosity piqued,” says Arthur. “I need to meet this girl for myself now. After all the fuss, I’ve got to see if she’s as amazing as I’ve heard.”

Morgana thinks about the gentle tinkle of Gwen’s laughter, like windchimes in an Arctic breeze. She raises a hand to her mouth as the ghost of their last kiss lingers across her lips, and thinks of the soft curve of Gwen’s smile. 

“She is,” she says.

~

The party is in full swing, and Arthur’s flat is dark, only lit by numerous string lights draped across the walls and the disco ball strobe light sitting on top of the bookshelf, as its flashing multicoloured beams rove across the living room. Every now and then there’s the clatter of something being knocked over, as tipsy figures stumble past one another in the semi-darkness, feeling their way around the room. The sound of party-goers’ chatter is offset by the music pumping from the speakers in the corner of the room, not deafeningly loud, but just enough to generate a noise complaint on any other night besides New Year’s Eve.

The party is in full swing, but Morgana can’t stop watching the door. She checks the time for the fifth time in minutes and taps her fingers against the neck of her beer bottle impatiently, loitering close to the entrance to the flat.

Arthur had come up to her about fifteen minutes ago to complain, “Stop hovering, you’re making people nervous. She’ll come. Just relax and enjoy the party.” Morgana had smoothed down the sequins of her dress self-consciously, frowning at him. Then he had dragged a giggly Merlin away to their room with a nervous look on his face and a lump in his pocket the size of a ring box, and Morgana had given him an enthusiastic thumbs up. They haven’t emerged from the bedroom yet, which she assumes is a good sign. 

She checks the time on her phone again. Thirty minutes to midnight, and no Gwen in sight. Her last text had been an excruciating half hour ago, just a simple  omw! in response to Arthur’s address, and hadn’t responded to Morgana’s  lmk when u get here x . She resists the urge to double-text for fear of coming off too needy, and tucks her phone away. Taking Arthur’s advice, she strikes up conversation with a couple nearby and throws herself into small talk so she won’t obsess over whether or not the ‘x’ had been too forward. She’s met Mithian and Owain before, as they’ve been friends with Arthur for years, and they’re lovely company. They spend a little time catching up, and for a while the distraction works.

Then the bedroom door bangs open and a few people jump at the noise, startled. Arthur reappears with his arms raised in triumph, pink cheeks obvious even in the low light. “He said yes!”

By his side, Merlin blushes as the room erupts in shouts and cheers, covering his face as he laughs; the thin silver band glints on his ring finger, shining as though under a spotlight. Morgana is the first to tackle him in a hug, pushing her way through the people in her way, and Merlin staggers under the force of her embrace.

“Welcome to the family, Merlin.” Morgana beams, kissing him on the cheek and leaving the pink imprint of her lipstick smudged on his pale skin. “Oh, I’m so happy for you two!”

“Thanks, Morgana,” Merlin says, grinning back at her. “Arthur caught me off-guard, I really wasn’t expecting anything like this at all. Did you know about this?”

“Maybe a little,” she says, and feels like her face might crack from smiling. She steps back to let other people come through and congratulate the two, watching as their friends surround them with hugs and excited felicitations. Freya barges past and sweeps Merlin up into a tight squeeze, nearly shrieking with her enthusiasm, while Leon claps Arthur soundly on the back in a bear hug. All the while, Arthur and Merlin cycle through their congratulations, looking overwhelmed but happy.

“What did I miss?” Gwen asks from behind her, and Morgana whirls around. Her eyes trail down Gwen’s slim figure, enrobed in a slinky silver dress that hugs her like a coat of paint. The thin straps balance delicately on her shoulders, stretching across the soft skin of her collarbones, and flow into a sweetheart neckline that highlights the curves of her chest.

“You made it,” Morgana says, breathless.

“Sorry I’m late,” Gwen apologises nervously. “What’s happening here?”

“Oh, my brother and his boyfriend just got engaged!” Morgana says, brightening again. “Well, fiancé now, I suppose. You  _ must _ come meet them.”

She grabs a hold of Gwen’s hand, trying not to overthink it, and pulls her into the crowd again even as Gwen objects lightly.

“I don’t want to impose,” she protests. 

“Nonsense, they’ll want to meet you,” Morgana promises, squeezing Gwen’s hand, and then they’re at the front of the crowd. Arthur’s arm is still wrapped around Merlin’s waist and he starts to open his mouth as he sees Morgana approach, before his eyes land on the woman being dragged behind her and he pauses. He whispers something into Merlin’s ear and his fiancé stifles a laugh, and suddenly Morgana is rethinking this idea of hers but they’ve already been spotted and it’s too late now.

“Morgana,” Arthur greets her, eyebrows raised.

“Arthur,” Morgana returns, trying to send threatening brain waves across the space between them, just daring him to embarrass her. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your  _ friend _ ?” asks Arthur innocently, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“I’m Gwen,” Gwen jumps in mercifully. “Thank you so much for letting me crash the party, I hope that’s alright!” 

“We’re always happy to have Morgana’s  _ friends _ over,” says Merlin cheekily, and Morgana turns her death glare on him instead. Traitor. “I’m Merlin, and this is Arthur.”

“I hear some congratulations are in order,” says Gwen, nodding at the silver ring on Merlin’s finger and he blushes, raising his hand up to the light to admire it as though he can’t believe it’s real. “You two make a beautiful couple.”

“Thank you, Gwen,” Merlin says, dimpling at her. “You’re very kind. I’m still a little bit in shock, to be honest, I really didn’t see this coming.”

“It’s because I’m very sneaky,” Arthur says to Gwen in a mock-conspiratorial voice.

“It’s because you got me tipsy and then blindsided me with the ring,” Merlin corrects, but any heat in his tone is immediately sapped away by the way he looks at Arthur, his eyes almost glowing with the reflection of the fairy lights. Morgana can practically hear Gwen’s heart melt into a puddle of goo.

“Sneaky,” Arthur insists. “It was a tactically sound strategy.”

“If you say so, love.” Merlin pats Arthur’s chest placatingly, which seems to soothe him. “Anyway, Gwen, I suppose now is the part where Arthur might like to grill you about your intentions with his sister – ”

Gwen turns pink, glancing quickly over at Morgana, who pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

“ – but as Morgana has just become my sister-in-law – ”

“ – to-be – ”

“ – shut up, Arthur, I’m still  _ speaking  _ – I’m going to take over his brotherly duties and insist that you two go enjoy the rest of the party,” Merlin finishes, holding a hand up to stifle Arthur’s protests. “There should still be some drinks left, you can just help yourself to whatever’s left in the kitchen, Gwen.”

“You’re my favourite brother,” Morgana says emphatically, leaning in to kiss Merlin’s cheeks, and Arthur makes an outraged sound, which they both ignore. 

“Cheers,” Gwen laughs, and gives Merlin a quick hug. “It was really nice to meet you both! Morgana’s told me enough about you that I’m glad to finally put faces to the names.”

“Whatever she’s said about me is a lie,” Arthur tells her as he goes to return her hug as well, but he’s smiling, which is a good sign. “Unless it’s good. Then it’s true.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around, Gwen,” says Merlin. 

“That’s the plan,” Gwen says, giving them a little wave goodbye as Morgana tugs her away from the crowd. She pulls her into the dim light of the kitchen, where the island’s countertop is covered with empty beer cans and opened liquor bottles, and the din from the living room is a little more muted through the closed door. “They seem nice.”

“They are, most of the time,” Morgana admits, poking through the half-filled bottles and eyeing the labels. “Mostly Arthur is annoying, but Merlin’s mellowed him out. He’s been really good for him. Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure.” Gwen goes over to the island and hovers next to Morgana, arms barely brushing. “What do they have?”

Morgana ends up pouring them both a vodka cranberry with the last two fingers of an opened litre of Smirnoff, having lost her beer bottle on one of the tables a little while ago. They both take an awkwardly long sip from their glasses, filling the silence between them. Morgana licks her lips as they leave her cup, coming away sticky from the cranberry juice, and she watches Gwen’s eyes dart down to her mouth.

“So,” she says.

“So,” echoes Gwen.

“Did you mean what you said to Merlin?” Morgana asks, liquid courage making her bold. “About sticking around?”

“Well, I’m only  _ here _ here for the holidays,” says Gwen thoughtfully. “And then I go back to Edinburgh next term, so no, I suppose I won’t be here for that much longer.”

Morgana squints at her, unsure of how to respond to the sudden shift in interest, and only realises that the other woman is teasing her when she catches Gwen hiding her smile in her glass. The expression on her face must be amusing because Gwen snorts, inhaling her drink and sending her into a coughing fit, but she comes up laughing. 

“You’re awful,” Morgana tells her, even as she hands Gwen a napkin. 

“I got you good, though, didn’t I?” Gwen giggles, far too smug. “Yes, you daftie, I want to stick around.”

“Okay, good,” Morgana says, and continues all in a rush. “I know we’ve known each other for less than a week at this point and I probably shouldn’t be making promises this early on, but every time I think of leaving you behind and letting those few days in Iceland disappear into a memory, like the faded painting at the lighthouse, the thought of you pulls me back to the present and it feels like I can’t breathe, so yeah. It turns out I like you quite a bit.”

Gwen kisses her before she’s finished speaking, her lips just as soft and warm as Morgana remembers, long fingers clutching around Morgana’s face like an act of desperation. She crowds Morgana against the island so that her back hits the cool tile; somewhere behind her there’s the sound of a few bottles clattering as she knocks them over, but Morgana couldn’t care less. She wraps her arms around Gwen’s waist, pulling their bodies closer together and feeling the tickle of Gwen’s shiny dress material against her skin. Morgana tastes cranberry on Gwen’s tongue, and kisses her back like their world depends on it. Dully, she registers the sound of chanting somewhere in the background, ignoring it until a great cheer erupts and the sounds of confetti poppers bursting and party horns squealing seeps through the cracks of the kitchen door. 

“We missed midnight,” Morgana murmurs into the space between them.

“That’s okay, love,” Gwen says, resting her forehead against Morgana’s. “We’ll get it next year.”

“Speaking of next year,” Morgana says, “did you know that Queen Margaret University has one of the best language and speech therapy programmes in the UK?”

Gwen pulls back cautiously so she can get a better look at Morgana’s face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asks hopefully. “Are you going to be in Edinburgh next year?”

“Well, I  _ was _ going to apply,” Morgana says innocently. “But I wasn’t so sure about the city, sort of on the fence, really. Can you think of any reason that I might want to be in Edinburgh?”

The smile that spreads across Gwen’s face is beatific, and Morgana thinks she can see the rolling greenery of Scottish hills in her future.

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas :)


End file.
